


Angel, Sinner, Dragonslayer

by NuMo



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crusades, F/F, Female Robin Hood, Period-Typical Sexism, Trans Side Character, gender-bend to make an heir, ruminations about sin and lying and identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: When The Right Honorable Michael Lord Bering returns from the Holy Land after five long years of captivity, he finds that his father has died and the sister of his fellow knight and childhood friend has vanished. The steward of Bering, Sir James MacPherson, has been bleeding people dry with taxes and levies. Their plight has given rise to a brigand hiding in the woods, the grandly named ‘King George the Dragonslayer.’Sir Michael has a lot to do, and no time for misgivings about the sin that permeates his every waking moment or the nightmares that fill his every sleeping one.
Relationships: Myka Bering/Helena "H. G." Wells
Comments: 48
Kudos: 38





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains both a person who is AFAB and was raised male against her will, and as a side character someone who is AFAB but is male and lives as such, as best he can. And also someone who chooses to disguise herself as a man. I hope I have done all of them justice.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fic contains ruminations by me (who's an atheist and cis) on sin, (medieval-ish) Christian teachings, gender identity and their intersections. Again, I hope I have done all of that justice; I'm very much not a scholar on any of this!
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fic is presented today thanks to my wife, who said basically "who cares if you're putting out too much at a time; one, it's a pandemic, and two, plenty of people will still have Thanksgiving off and a lot of time on their hands." So while on the other ~~channel~~ fic I'll be putting up eight chapters in the upcoming week, have this one as well, and in full! Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate!

#### 

Prologue

“Michael!” 

Footsteps follow you. You speed up to avoid her – it is not safe. 

“Michael!” Her footfalls speed up as well and her voice rises. “Are you going to run away from me all the way to Jerusalem?”

You turn; you have no choice. “Helena,” you greet her with a bow, here in this corridor where there is no one but the two of you.

“One might think you were avoiding me,” she says, with a lowering and raising of eyelashes that someone who doesn’t know her might think demure. 

You do know her, though, and you know that any decorousness is but a front. 

You _have_ been avoiding her. It is not safe; not for you and not for her. 

“Forgive me, please,” you say, taking a step back. “Your brother and I were busy preparing for our departure.”

“Never mind that now,” she brushes it away, closing the distance you put between the two of you. “It is your journey that I would talk with you about.”

You try not to retreat. You are a baron’s son and a knight, after all, even though today, you carry but your dagger. It is the celebration of Sir Charles’ and your imminent leave for the Holy Land; your arms are in the abbey in preparation for tomorrow’s service. You were on your way to your vigil there when Helena found you.

“What do you wish to know?” you ask her, trying to stay just this side of impolite while also not encouraging her to go on with this conversation. The two of you are still alone, and if you are missed, overheard or found, rumor will spread. She is of age and unwed; you are, in the eyes of the world, a man. It is not safe, not for you and not for her. 

She swallows, and that throws you. She who is always so sure of herself now hesitates, now looks aside. “I would… Have you-” She bites off her words, then casts her eyes up to you again. “Sir Michael, will you keep my brother safe?”

Never before has she called you ‘sir’ and not meant it in jest. On top of that, you are not sure that this is what she intended to ask, but you nod nevertheless, swayed by the visible fear in her expression. “I swear it,” you say. Sir Charles Wells is impetuous and over-confident, and try though you (and his father) might, you have not been able to cure him of it. It will not serve him well in battle and you fear for him, but he was not to be deterred from joining you when the call came to free the Holy Land and you announced that you would go. You seek indulgence of your sins; he seeks to prove his mettle. Keeping him safe is the least you can do. It is what you have always done. 

You have grown up together, Sir Charles, Helena, your sister Tracy and you. Your father is The Right Honorable Warren Lord Bering, Sir Joseph Wells is his marshal and commander of the castle’s men-at-arms, Lady Wells is your mother’s lady-in-waiting. The two families’ children were born in three alternating years: Helena is the oldest, then your twin sister and you, then Charles. Ties of friendship bind the four of you together, and as of today Charles and Tracy are betrothed, to be married upon your return from the Holy Land, God willing. 

You have yet to announce a courtship, much less a betrothal, but then you are only twenty-two. Charles is but twenty, but then he’s not the lord of the manor’s son. And while it is just about acceptable for the younger and female child of a baron to bind herself to the son of a knight in the baron’s employ, it would be the height of impropriety for the elder and male child of said baron to bind himself to, for example, said knight’s daughter. 

Perhaps your parents will find a suitable match for you while you are gone. Until then, you _have_ avoided Helena’s advances, it is true. Tell her that something isn’t proper and she will find a way to do it, though – and if things were different-

But they are not. 

She accepts your oath to protect her brother with a distracted nod; her jaw is tight, and for the first time you wonder if her worry might not just extend to her brother but to yourself as well. If anyone asked you to describe who you are to each other, you would call her your childhood friend and not be untruthful; one would be worried for one’s childhood friend and not just one’s brother, you tell yourself. And then she asks, “Will you at least take this token with you?” and the urgency in her voice makes you reconsider the brush-off already hovering on your lips. She is holding out a small, folded-up piece of cloth to you. “I made it myself.”

It would be bad manners not to at least acknowledge her question, so you take the piece and unfold it – the cloth is embroidered; by her hand, you presume, even though you know full well the impatience she holds for the needle arts. An image of the angel you are named for stares up at you, shown in the act of slaying the serpent. Its colors and imagery are vivid and bold, the needlework impeccable – impatient she might be, but perfectionist she is as well. You inhale at the motif; ‘Dragonslayer’ was one epithet people tried to make stick when you were knighted. You flat-out refused it; it smacked of hubris to claim not just such prowess but similarity to an angel to boot. 

You are steeped in sin; you most certainly are not similar to an angel.

You realize you’re glaring, and quickly school your features into a polite smile.

Helena rolls her eyes. “It’s _meant_ to annoy you,” she says archly. “That way, whenever you’ll look at it you’ll be exasperated; it’ll be just as if I were there.” Her smile tries to be lofty, but its corners tremble too much. 

Any thoughts of exasperation – and it is so very like her to aim for that in specific – aside, the embroidery is a symbol, and you both know it. Yes, knights will sometimes take their lady’s favor into battle with them; but Helena is not your lady. She is your dear friend, but not more. She cannot be more, must not be more. 

“Helena,” you stall, torn between two thoughts – this might be the last time that you will see her, speak to her, and while you know you must protect your secret, you are only human, so very human, and your heart-

Your heart _yearns._ You have loved her since you first learned what love was, but you are not who she thinks you to be; if you accept this favor, you would be leading her on. She cannot, must not give her heart to you. Better it be broken now, with the chance to mend soon and find another, better suited suitor. “I mustn’t,” you whisper, half-turning aside from her.

The sound she makes is half frustrated, half tortured, and she grabs your chin with imperious hands and kisses you, and for a moment, you drown in her and perish willingly. 

She fills all your senses, heals your heart even as she breaks it, sates your every hunger and leaves you starving when the kiss is broken. 

“Come back safely.” You feel her whisper against your cheek, and then her footsteps recede around the corner.

You raise your hand to your mouth, and find the cloth tucked into your cuff by the clever hand that made it.

* * *

#### 

Chapter 1

It has been eight years since you laid eyes on home, but in your heart it feels like a lifetime. You left to free the Holy Land and earn indulgence for the sin that permeates your life – and while pilgrims are now free to make their way to Jerusalem, the city itself is not, and what was supposed to be your penance has left you feeling more sullied than when you set out.

You stop your horse at the crest of the hill to take in the castle and surrounding lands, to see what remains and what has changed. Behind you, your squire Claud halt his steeds as well; next to you, Pete, who was Charles’ and your retainer before getting knighted on the battlefield, and Steve, who was Charles’ squire and now is Pete’s, rein in their horses too. Clouds of steamy breath rise silver in the dusky sunlight. You shift slightly in the saddle and Claud looks at you with concern; he bound your breasts this morning, and you know he rued it as much as you did. On the ship that carried you here, as well as on your trip through continental Europe, you had dared to simply hide your body under thick winter garments. Today, you will be reunited with people who have known you since childhood; you cannot afford to go unbound. 

It hurts, physically and in your soul, and makes you short of breath even only riding. You are no longer used to this. You push aside the pain, though, and focus on what your eyes show you.

The walls of Bering have grown and still the village has spilled out beyond them, eating into the forest north of it with meadows and fields now barren but for a few winter crops. You sent word ahead when you set out inland, and someone in the donjon must have kept watch; the gates are swung wide and a company of riders gallops out. Pete flinches and in truth you only barely don’t; having mounted men ride at you will trigger such a reaction these days, no matter that you’re thousands of miles and many, many years away from the battlefields of the Levant. 

It takes you a while to recognize the Bering bear on the pennants being carried towards you. You allow yourself to relax; your horse shifts underneath you, sensing the change, and snorts out a cloud of breath. A moment later, Pete’s shoulders soften, too. Claud sits up straighter and casts an excited grin at Steve. 

You’re home. 

There’s a flurry of action when the riders meet you, and soon you’re trotting into the castle along streets lined with people who cheer at your return; soon you’re ensconced in baths of pleasantly hot water, soon you’re clothed in soft, clean garments. And then your mother takes you to the chapel and shows you your father’s grave and your sister’s beside it, and you try to observe proper custom, show proper grieving. 

You have seen so much death, of so many good people. You’re not sure if you can count your father among them. Tracy, yes. She was sweet and good; when you bow your head and recite the appropriate prayers, when you linger, when you shed a tear, it’s for her much more than it is for him. 

You are The Right Honorable Michael Lord Bering now. 

The household has changed and shifted; it is not only your father who has passed. Of all the dwellers of the castle, the Wells family has been hit hardest, you hear from your mother at supper. 

“Sir Joseph and his wife were both carried off by the same fever that took your father and sister, Michael,” she tells you, and your heart grows heavy for Helena, who has not joined you at the table for some reason. “Sir James MacPherson is our steward now-”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. A Scotsman? Sir Arthur Nielsen, seated at Mother’s left hand, shifts and scowls. He used to hold that office. 

“-appointed by the sheriff, to whom he is off reporting at the moment,” your mother finishes, and you understand Arthur’s ire now. He was removed from office against his will, you have no doubt.

You turn to him. “Which leaves you in-”

“The office of marshal, my lord.”

You nod your understanding. “And does that suit you, you find?”

Again he shifts in discomfort. “By your leave, my lord – could I show you around the barony tomorrow? I believe it will make things clearer.”

“By all means,” you tell him. It is not an answer to your question, but by that same virtue, it also is. And on a ride across the estate, no one will overhear what he tells you.

Then your mother catches your attention with a hand on your forearm. “One thing I must ask, Michael,” she says intently. “We thought you all dead, and thank the Lord for your return, but… what about Sir Charles? With his parents dead and Helena gone-”

“Gone?” Your breath catches in your throat. You look around the table; now her absence seems utterly ominous.

Your mother nods. “A dreadful story,” she says. “She left on a pilgrimage, hoping to lift the blight of fever from the land. But she never arrived, nor did she ever return here. No one has heard of her since-”

“Yes, they have,” Arthur says darkly. 

“Rumors,” Mother reprimands him. “We shall not give credence to those accounts.” She turns to you again. “The facts of the matter are that one and a half years after you and Sir Charles left, a fever ran through these parts, and your father, Sir Joseph and Lady Wells died. Nine weeks later, the fever returned and robbed us of your sister, and it was then that Helena announced that she and Father Caturanga would set out on a pilgrimage to Rome. I received a handful of letters from her, but after a few weeks, they stopped coming.” She bites her lip for a moment, then goes on, “MacPherson sent a missive to the convent in Rome that was her destination, and received word that she never made it there. That was the extent of his investigation on the matter,” she adds disapprovingly; you can’t help but agree with her assessment. 

“No letters to other monasteries on the way?” you ask in disbelief. “No men sent after her, following the path she would have taken?” No men setting out on their own? Helena was the garrison’s darling – not in a leery, simpering-damsel-among-the-guardsmen way, but as almost an equal, sparring and jesting with everyone even as Charles and you trained as knights. Tracy, blond and sweet, was the beloved princess; Helena, dark of hair and blistering of temperament, was the firebrand that would make the men roar with laughter and slap their knees in approval. She was well-loved by even the gruffest; to think that no one tried to find her leaves you stunned. 

“Nothing,” Arthur says curtly. “Sir James wouldn’t allow it.”

You do the sums – Helena has been missing for six years, roughly. Six years! And the steward wouldn’t _allow-!_ You press your lips together; Sir James can count himself lucky that he is not here. You want to tell him a few choice words about how he has acted – or failed to – in this matter. 

Knowing all of this does not make it lighter to say what you have to say. You try to take a deep breath, only to be reminded that your chest is bound when the familiar pain stabs through you. “Sir Charles fell within sight of Jerusalem.” 

Your mother gasps, makes the sign of the cross, and looks down in silent prayer for a moment. 

“How did it happen?” she asks you then. “And what of you, my son?”

You tell her in brief words of the journey to the Levant and your stops along the way, and try to gloss over what exactly your part was in those exploits. Pete doesn’t take well to your reserve, though. 

“He saved the king’s life! Sir Michael the Avenger he was called,” he says proudly, lifting his goblet in salute. “None could hold their own against him on the battlefield.”

“Is that true?” your mother asks with shining eyes you cannot meet. Not when you sit here at her table but Charles, the one you swore to protect, does not. 

Still, you nod – with misgivings, but you nod. One of the things you’ve learned about yourself along the way was how good you were at killing. In any battle, any skirmish, any fight, it was as if time itself slowed down – or perhaps your mind sped up, who are you to say – allowing you to sort through everything your eyes perceived and come up with solutions. This fighter favors his right leg; that horse is moments from shying. This sword is nicked and will catch; that shield is held together only by its leather cover. Swing your shield to ensnare, bring your sword up here, not there. Pick up and fling a handful of dirt drenched in blood, shift your weight just so and strike, strike, strike before you are struck.

You have lost count of how many people you have killed, and the thought haunts you. How can you do penance when-

Pete tells you it doesn’t matter, that that is precisely what the crusader’s indulgence is all about, but you can’t let go of it. In a fight, all you see is shapes advancing on you and moves you need to make; it’s when fighting stops that you remember that all those shapes were human beings, that all those moves were killing blows you dealt. And then you cannot forget. Your mind has ever been like that; it was fun as a child, but now your skill of remembrance has become a bitter prison.

You haven’t quite yet solved the puzzle of how to deal with that. Sometimes you wonder if you ever will. Oh, some people hold that Saracens and other unbelievers have no soul, that who you killed were vermin not men, but you find you cannot bring yourself to believe that. Not when you have seen the lights in their eyes; not when you’ve caused those lights to dim and die. 

Not when they have saved your life.

“How, then, did you get captured, Michael?” Mother asks, waking you from your ponderings. 

You swallow. This time, you know better than to attempt a deep inhale. “We were marching on Jerusalem,” you tell her. “Our leadership was divided, though, and Saladin sought to profit from that; the train that Charles, Pete and I were in came under attack when we were barely in sight of the city.” 

“Sir Michael here was single-handedly holding off two dozen fighters,” Pete cuts in, embellishing as usual. You have given up trying to disabuse him of it. “They knew him for who he was, and were vying to test themselves against him, but none prevailed until a foul attack from the side felled his horse and cut his leg open.”

Your mother hides a small sound of distress behind her hand. 

“They swarmed us then,” Pete goes on, “and while they did so, Sir Charles fell. Sir Michael was trying to retrieve his body, and then the command came to retreat.”

“Mother, I could not leave him,” you choke out, and she nods and pats your hand.

“I understand, my son.”

“Thus we were overrun and taken captive,” Pete continues. “And I have to say it was for the best, in a way. Because that wound – I am sorry, my lady,” he catches himself, bowing to your mother, who has gasped again and is looking slightly ill, “but I have seen knights die from such injury in the care of our doctors. But the Saracens patched him right up. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, I swear.”

You bow your head. You agree with him, and yet – that captivity lasted for five interminable years. A great many surviving crusaders have been long home. You feared that the five of you would be thought dead; it added to the weight on your shoulders. 

“They treated you well, then?” Mother asks, and you nod. 

“Well and honorably,” you tell her, and notice how her shoulders sag with relief. “Sharia, their law, states that a prisoner of war can earn their freedom by converting to their faith, which we declined of course, by paying ransom, which we couldn’t, or by teaching.”

“And that’s what he did,” Pete takes up the tale again. “Well, he had to heal first, and then there was a hearing where it was determined what we’d have to do to be allowed to walk free.”

“I had to learn their language and scripture,” you say, “to teach both it and ours to the people of the village we were held in. Mother, if I had been allowed to write to you, I would have-” Your voice breaks, and you have to stop for fear of losing your composure. 

“I know, my son,” your mother tells you. 

What you do not tell her is that the village you found yourselves in was ruled by a council of women, who took no exception whatsoever at the thought of a woman in arms fighting alongside men. 

Yes, they knew your secret; the whole village did, and neither its women nor its men cared. Among them, you could walk free – as much as your status as prisoner of war allowed, of course – with no thought of binding or hiding, and the peace of mind that gave you is something you sorely miss, now that you are back home. And that is an odd feeling. 

You are in the presence of your mother, in the place you grew up in, and yet this is also the mother who, at your father’s behest, had you deny who you are, had you bind your breasts and hide your bloody rags, had you go by a man’s name and pronouns. The people who held you prisoner, on the other hand, called you by your chosen name, and allowed you to be yourself in a way you never had leeway to here at home.

Is it any wonder you both did and did not want to come back? But what does that make you?

“We returned as fast as we could,” Pete says, glossing over your silence – he knows what you are thinking. He knows your secret, as do Steve and Claud. Your mother is the only other person in this room who does, now that your father is dead. “It wasn’t just that we had to earn our freedom,” Pete goes on, “we also had to pay for the voyage here.”

“My apologies, mother,” you chime in, ready to rejoin the conversation, “that we do not return, as other crusaders did, laden with gold or jewels-”

“Michael,” your mother interrupts you with tears in her eyes, “you returned. Four of you. Alive and whole, that’s all that matters.”

It is debatable if she is right in that. Alive you might be, but whole? You have your doubts. Physically you are healed, yes, even fighting fit again. But that is not the only way in which a person can be ailing.

Regardless, you incline your head in acquiescence of her words. “Indeed. And I did manage to bring with me all the knowledge I’ve gained – I’ll ask for an audience with Mother Irene at the next opportunity. Mother, the Saracens know so much that we do not, and I would give it all into her hands to benefit as many people as possible, if she’s willing.”

“I’m sure she will look favorably on that,” Mother says.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur and you ride out the next day. He is to show you your estate and fill you in on what happened while you were gone. James MacPherson isn’t expected back until next week at the earliest, and Arthur has been steward before him; he knows the ins and outs. In the afternoon, you will make your way to the monastery and Mother Irene. You are not exactly looking forward to that visit, but courtesy, at the very least, would have called for it even if you had nothing to offer her. The lord of Bering and the Mother Superior are the two main figures of authority in the area, after all, and have to be seen collaborating, getting along.

“-farm has been divided among the two sons; they both barely scrape a living from it,” Arthur tells you as you ride past orchards barren of fruit or leaves. “If we could only acquire market rights for Bering, my lord, it would stabilize our situation enormously.” He looks at you with hopeful eyes. 

You sigh. “I brought it up to the king when I saw him, but if he hasn’t granted it since his return I fear he might not remember. I will write and see if I can remind him, but, Sir Arthur, we are but a small barony, not high on the list of priorities, I’m sure. Now, tell me what you’re not telling me about Sir James.”

The many founts and waterways that characterize the estate and procure much of its wealth are in bad shape, you can see that. With the upcoming rains of winter, that does not bode well. Flooded fields might catch blights, flooded homes might mold, flooded roads might wash out, flooded bridges might collapse and cut off entire hamlets for weeks at a time. Your father knew this, as did both his children and his steward, but James MacPherson does not seem to know – or care. Here and there you can spot patches of upkeep and repair, but they’re nowhere near as numerous or sound as they should be at this time of year. 

You take a deep breath before you reach what used to be the Valda family’s fish ponds. They’re stagnant and stinking now, no longer a proud source of the best fresh water fish for miles around. You grit your teeth as you ride past, trying to keep your breathing shallow. This man MacPherson, appointed to be your estate’s steward, is squandering its wealth, its very livelihood and that of its people.

“He is making a mess of things,” Arthur says, sounding ferociously frustrated. “He’s ruled by greed; he asks too much. He’s chased several families from their homes over unpaid taxes that _he_ raised too high; good families, my lord.” He points at the ponds. “Had Valda and his sons arrested and thrown into the sheriff’s prison for treason, and forbade his wife to work the ponds, not caring that she’d fall behind on what she owed. And they aren’t the only family with a story like that. And now we have accounts of a band of thieves hiding in the Dells.”

“Thieves!” you exclaim. 

“So far they have only attacked carts with taxes and goods that Sir James levied, not people, farms, or businesses directly,” he replies. “I’ve increased security along the roads, I send out larger escorts with the carts, but I’ve been able to hold back on straight up riding out against them, and the bounty we set on their leader’s head is nominal only.”

You turn to look at him, eyebrows high. He’s the marshal and commander of the garrison – if there is thievery, it is his duty-

“Things were in balance, my lord,” he says intently, “until Sir James upset that. So far, what these men are doing is righting the scales again, if you will. Plus they are, we believe, local lads; if I were to crush them with the castle’s full might, people, their families, would rise up in arms. It isn’t perfect, but-” he breaks off and scowls.

You nod slowly. “I think I understand,” you tell him. 

“Besides, it’s the Dells.”

You nod again; the stretch of forest at the southeastern fringes of your fief is notorious. Cleft with vales and gorges, it is too uneven to be tamed. No place for horses; barely a place for men. Even the road goes around. Take an armed force into it and expect to be ambushed, decimated at best, annihilated at worst. 

“They have not hurt anybody,” Arthur goes on. “Except Sir James’ pride,” he adds with a scoff and a shrug. “Whoever is leading them is smart, a good leader, good strategist. People call him King George, or the Dragonslayer. They say that he has a magic sword that can cut through iron.” He snorts, but you remember the Saracen weapon that sliced through your hauberk and reserve judgement. You also remember that Dragonslayer was something people tried to call you, alluding to the angel you’re named for. But then Michael slayed a serpent, not a dragon. It _was_ George who killed _that_ beast. “It seems,” Arthur is continuing, oblivious to your musings, “that everyone in England now wants their own Robin of the Hood. And from what I’ve heard he, or his band, or whatever these people are, does give most of what they steal back to the people it was taken from.” He shakes his head. “My lord, your father has always done his best to help people not fall into poverty and to help the poor not to fall into sin. It is in that vein that I did what I did, that I held back from cracking down. If I did wrong-”

“It seems you did not,” you tell him. “Not as far as I can see, anyway. I’d still like to get a clearer picture; upon our return please prepare a list of every incident, and let me see the estate’s accounts.”

“Of course, my lord. I would also like to go over who holds which office,” he says. “We have lost many a good man over clashes with Sir James’ policies.”

“Yes, of course.” You try to curb your frustration with the steward. “I want to find positions for Sir Peter and Steven Jinks.” You already have a position in mind for Claud, but you want to run it past him first.

Arthur nods. 

You are somewhat nervous, later that afternoon, as you approach the monastery that buts up to the donjon’s walls. You’ve always been intimidated by Mother Irene. Father Caturanga, the castle’s chaplain, had skin that to your childish eyes was brown like that of a deeply tanned man; Mother Irene’s seemed black as night to you. Father Caturanga was genial; Mother Irene never even smiled. Father Caturanga’s approach was one of kind understanding; Mother Irene seemed able to read your mind and silently judge every guilty secret searing within it.

Mother Irene and Father Caturanga were on good speaking terms, though, you know that much. You are sure that the two conversed about the Father setting out on a pilgrimage with Helena Wells; you wonder how much the Mother knows about their disappearance, wonder if MacPherson ever asked. 

You wonder if Helena is even still alive. 

You swallow at the thought that she might not be, that her indomitable spirit and endless resourcefulness might be lost to the world. You must admit that the thought of returning home has always been interwoven with the thought of seeing her again. Both have kept you going, and now one of those strands is flapping loose, and it unsettles you. 

You still carry her embroidery. It’s been torn, stained by blood and God knows what else, washed with harsh soap and bleached in even harsher sunlight, but you have kept it on you, your talisman, your anchor. Yes, looking at the angel slaying the serpent did exasperate you, just like she intended; more so when your brothers in arms started calling you by the angel’s epithet of Avenger. But whenever you looked at it with annoyance, you heard her voice echo in your ears, you felt her kiss on your lips, and you longed. You longed just to see her again, even at the distance necessary for respectability. After a while, whenever you looked at it you pushed your misgivings aside, choosing to ignore them for the while and just think of her, of home, of simpler things. All your contradictions, all your doubts were resolved by the words that you kept telling yourself.

Please.

Please let this ship take me where I need to go.

Please let me survive this battle.

Please let me live to return – home, to her.

And now here you are. You’ve gotten where you needed to go, you’ve survived, you’ve returned. You’re home, and she is not here. You’re flapping loose, unmoored, untethered. 

Here you are, and things are complicated, all the misgivings, complications and doubts back with a vengeance.

Here you are, and you wonder if you have lost your way to God. You set out in the hope to do His work by means of your sword and the arm behind it, and you found-

Politics. Pilgrimage routes are trade routes, ports and fortresses are strategic points of control, and sometimes it seemed that the crusade was less about freeing the Holy Land and more about-

You mustn’t think these thoughts; are they not heresy? Are you not questioning the will of the Lord even as you walk into one of his houses of worship?

You are filled with so many questions, and some of them you cannot even put to anyone, for fear of what they might think.

“Your lordship,” one of the sisters greet you. “Mother Irene will be here short-”

“Well met, Lord Bering,” Mother Irene says. It always seems as if she appears out of thin air – then again, the walls of the monastery are thick and the windows small and the sisters’ habits black. “Would you follow me to my study?”

You incline your head and trail her. Your father used to come here often to discuss matters of import; you had not yet grown into your role as his successor enough to have accompanied him but for a very few times. And yet the study is as you remember: lit by a window covered in scraped and oiled hide as well as a few candles, filled with a chair and desk on which lie scrolls and letters of her correspondence to far-away places. 

“Will you take a seat, Lord Bering?” She gestures towards the other chair in the room, and you sink into it. “We were greatly relieved to hear of your return,” she tells you, and while other people might accompany words to that effect with a smile, she does not. “And saddened by the news of Sir Charles’ passing. Though he walks with the Lord now, I am sure, his family is now diminished.”

“That is one thing I would like to talk about; the Wells family, Helena’s disappearance,” you tell her. “But first, I would like to tell you that while I have not brought relics or other items of import, I have had opportunity to study the Saracen language and several texts written in it, both secular and what they deem holy. Works on medicine, astronomy, philosophy and law; a history as well. My memory of them is perfect, but I would not trust my penmanship, so if you could, perhaps, assign me a scribe to preserve that knowledge?”

Her brows are high and her eyes avid. “Of course,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “I have always seen value in preserving knowledge, of any kind or any source. Truly, this is a gift to rival a relic or two, your lordship, and I thank you for it. Seek out Sister Anna; I will let her know to consider herself at your disposal for the task.” She inclines her head and you breathe a bit more freely, now that your gift has been received so well. “As for your other matter,” she then goes on, and takes what relaxation you’ve found away again. “Helena Wells approached Father Caturanga about a pilgrimage to Rome, and he in turn approached me. I gave them my blessing and a list of monasteries along their way; they never turned in at any of them.”

“You have made inquiries, then?”

Mother Irene nods. “I correspond with many of my fellow servants of the Lord,” she says, indicating her desk. “And I have received no news – no one claiming the names of Helena Wells or Father Caturanga asked for hospitality, nor were people of their description treated for illnesses or brought for burial.”

That last part, though delivered very matter-of-factly, makes your throat constrict – and then open up again. Not buried in a graveyard might mean left to rot in the woods – or it might mean still alive. You inhale carefully; you are not yet used to having your chest bound again. “Is there anything else you know that might help me find her?”

Her eyebrows rise again. “Is that your plan?”

You blink. “Of course it is,” is your reply. “She is my friend. I know chances are slim, but if I can-” you bite off your words. “I promised her to keep her brother safe,” you continue in a quieter voice, “and I failed to do that. And now I return to find her disappeared. Surely that is reason enough to at least try and find out what happened to her. Bering and Wells have always stood together; that was true for my father and Sir Joseph, it was true when Charles and Tracy were promised to each other. I see no reason why it shouldn’t be true for Helena and I.”

“I understand,” Mother Irene says. She is quiet for a while. Then she takes in a breath through her nose and says, “Her parents’ death hit her hard. She did survive the fever, but it as well as grief took a toll on her. I also believe that there were some… unwanted advances on both her and Lady Tracy, may the Lord rest her soul, by your current steward.”

“What!” Your jaw almost drops. Your mother never even mentioned- you grit your teeth. Sir James MacPherson will have a lot to answer for when he returns. 

Mother Irene nods gravely. “It was Father Caturanga’s impression that Sir James sought to solidify his position by marriage. Your mother refused to entertain the notion and so did Helena’s parents, but after their death, he seemed to redouble his efforts.”

“So her pilgrimage might have been an attempt to get out of his reach?” you suggest. 

Mother Irene silently inclines her head, but does not comment. 

You sigh. “This list of monasteries you gave them,” you say, “would you share it with me as well so that I might send out men to trace her steps?”

“Of course,” she replies. “We have been keeping her and Father Caturanga in our prayers; if one or both of them were found, we all would rejoice.”

“Thank you.”

Before you can start to take your leave, though, she speaks up again. “It might console you to know that your father died in a state of grace, Lord Bering.”

Your body freezes in the act of leaning forward to rise; your thoughts are running wild. There really is only one thing she can mean by that – your father confessed that he raised his eldest daughter as his son. 

“That is, truly, good to know,” you say weakly, trying to order your thoughts. What does she make of the secret? Will she honor the seal of the confessional?

“I will gladly serve as your confessor, should you so choose,” she goes on. “Father Remigius acts as such for the castle now, of course, but your father has sought my aid and that of my predecessor for the purpose. If you do as well, I am ready.”

The idea of bringing your – potentially heretic – questions to her, much less the secret of your identity, is daunting. But you _are_ in sore need of confession, you do know that much. And Father Remigius is a larger unknown than Mother Irene is. 

She does seem a bit more approachable now – and her skin is not as black as night; it is simply as dark as that of some of the people you have lived among for five years. “Things have been quite… busy, yesterday and today,” you tell her. “A lot of my time is spoken for-”

“The state of your eternal soul surely takes priority over at least some of your concerns,” she says, with what is almost a smile. It is certainly a dry humor you can hear in her voice. 

And that more than anything else drives your decision to accept her offer. “I will come by tomorrow evening, if you have the time.”

“Between vespers and compline,” she nods, and then you take your leave.

After dinner, Arthur hands you three ledgers, two thick, one thin – the estate accounts, the garrison’s log, and a list of the castle’s household members. When you retire to your chamber to peruse them, Claud lingers in the doorway. “Sir Michael – um, my lord, could I talk to you?”

You nod. He’s visited his family yesterday; you wonder if they, farmers that they are, have spoken to him of this ‘King George’. “Come on in,” you tell him, “and don’t lose sleep over how you address me. Certainly not in private like this. You didn’t before.”

“Well you weren’t a baron then,” he quips with a shadow of his usual grin. You usher him to the chair and sit down on your bed.

Claud is a good man. Like you, his body has breasts and menses; unlike you, he is truly a man, not pretending to be. It seems highly unlikely that the two of you would find each other as squire and knight (or baron’s son and son’s page before that), yet here you are. Together you figured out how to bind breasts safely and what to wear so as to not have to bind at all. You have defended his safety with your words, your fists, your sword; his loyalty to you is unconditional.

“Speaking of being a baron,” you begin, seeing an opening and making use of it. “Claud, now that we’re back, I’d like to ask you to be my manservant. I know it’s not really a prestigious position considering you could rightly claim a knighthood, but I need someone I can trust.”

“Say no more,” he says immediately. “Course I’ll do it. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a knight, anyway,” he adds quietly, looking at his hands in his lap. “Don’t get me wrong,” he goes on, quickly glancing up at me in mortification, “I’m so grateful for having gotten the chance and all that, but…” He presses his lips together. 

“Don’t worry,” you say. “If being my valet sounds good to you, I’m not going to hold that against you.” You hold out your hand. “Agreed, then?”

He grins as he shakes it. “Yeah.”

“Excellent.” I nod my chin at the staff list. “I’ll make a note of it and inform Sir Arthur. But – you wanted to talk with me about something. What is it? Is your family alright?”

He nods, but his face is troubled now. “Josh is working for him,” he says curtly. 

You blink as you try to make sense of this. Then it clicks. “For Sir James?!”

Claud nods. His jaw is furiously clenched. “I don’t know why, and Claire doesn’t either, nor her husband. To think that Josh is even now traveling with this… this son of a-”

“Language,” you warn, even if it’s just the two of you. Claud has a temper, and the more he works on keeping it in check, the better. 

He’s quiet, and you know he’s counting to ten in his head. Then he pries his teeth apart to speak. “He raised taxes way too high, and Claire and Arnold just had their second baby; they need a bit of reprieve, not an armed man pounding on their door every other day.”

Every other day! You scowl. “I’ll put a stop to that,” you promise. “Also, my congratulations.”

Claud nods curtly. “Thank you.” He runs a hand down his face and sighs. “It’s not just the taxes, though; Claire says that yields have gone down all across Edgewood Farm. Water quality in the creek’s gotten worse, so the ducks aren’t as fat, and the meadows didn’t make enough hay to bring the cow through the winter, so they sold it and now they have not enough milk to make cheese. The list goes on. You’d think that Josh would help with all that, but apparently he doesn’t, and Claire isn’t even mad at him. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe reserve judgement on that until he’s back and you’ve talked with him,” you advise. 

He blows out a frustrated breath. “I guess.” He crosses his arms and slumps in his chair, just like when he was thirteen years old, starting in your service.

“Have Claire or Arnold said anything about thieves or outlaws in the area?” you ask. 

“Oh!” Claud sits up straight again. “Yeah, actually. Arnold mentioned that it started after they had Winold; he was scared for a while but he said it turned out this Sir George or King George or whatever is a regular Robin Hood type of guy and doesn’t go after the small man. And then Claire shushed him. And I mean I get it, what with them being Josh’s family and all. Wouldn’t really look good if they got caught talking about Josh’s employer’s nemesis, or take loot from him or something.” He looks aside for a moment. “Honestly, with the state the house was in and a new-born baby and everything I kinda feel like maybe they should. But who am I to say.”

“Should?”

“Take loot if this George person shows up ready to hand them some.”

You nod. “I see. Well, next time you visit them, take notice of what would help them, or downright ask, and I’ll see what I can do, alright? And remember, there won’t be any guards come knocking at their door anymore. I promise.”

“Mi-, um si-, um, my lord, you really don’t-”

You interrupt him. “I really do, Claud. It is my duty, my responsibility to my people. What Sir James is doing is despicable and negligent if not downright harmful, and I’m putting a stop to it.”

When you go through Arthur’s log later that night, it corroborates what Arnold said – the robberies started five years and eight months ago. You’ll need to speak with Mother Irene, the sheriff, the neighboring barons; maybe something outside of the Bering estate triggered this. Or maybe this is simply a reaction of a people to an unjust steward. Just as Arthur said, the attacks show the picture of a formidable opponent: careful, smart, ingenious, knowledgeable about the land. Not one attack resembles the ones before, and they all account for increased security measures. A spy in your ranks? Or simply an adversary who is adept at prediction? 

Arthur and his men never once managed to capture him or one of his band; this George person would rather leave behind loot than one of his. And they don’t do permanent harm – none of your guardsmen has lost life or limb in their encounters. A bit of blood, yes, plenty of dignity as well. Bruises and concussions and broken bones, but nothing worse than that. And, yes, always they go only after the accumulated taxes and levies, and never do they take all of it. 

These men swoop in, disable the guards, skim between ten and twenty percent off what coin or goods they find, and are away before anyone can stop them. They never take jewelry or other recognizable items – and if they truly give what they steal back to the people it was collected from, that would make sense. It’d be suspicious if the gold ring someone gave to the tax collector were back on their finger the next time the tax collector came around. 

A cart will set out to Coopsford tomorrow; you will accompany it. Maybe you can talk to this George person, explain that things will change. Who knows; with a mind like his, he might be open to sensible words between sensible men.

You shake your head as you close the log. Your very own Robin of the Hood. Here in Bering. 

Then you turn to the steward’s ledger.


	3. Chapter 3

You’re still pouring over Sir James’ accounts, now with a sheet of paper and a quill of your own as you try to make sense of his numbers, when you hear the soft scratch of the shutter latch being undone from the outside. You put your quill down and turn towards the window, drawing your knife. A slender person drops in from outside; you see no bow or quarterstaff, but you don’t relax regardless. Then they straighten, and you see their face.

“Helena,” you say, for it is none other than her. You push your knife back into its sheath and give silent, fervent thanks to the Lord that she is still alive.

“Michael,” she whispers, her eyes unreadable. She makes a move as if she wants to rush towards you, and though you half expected it, it still makes you shrink back – you have already undressed for the night, so your breasts are unbound; you can only hope that the dim light of the sconce on your desk as well as the voluminous folds of your nightdress will hide them. She stills at your gesture. “It is true, then. You are back,” she says eventually. 

“I am.” Your eyes rove her face, her figure, her face again. Her features are leaner, harder, though it might be the illumination or the dark dye of her chaperon. The latter has the cut and color of a man’s; underneath it, she wears a tunic and hose, and soft leather boots appropriate for scaling donjon walls. Has she done the same as you, taken on the appearance of a man? It would be safer, in some ways, though still precarious in others. But where has she been, that she has heard so quickly, that she is here already now?

“And-” Her breath hitches, leaving her words stuck in her throat. She takes a trembling breath and tries anew. “Charles?”

You swallow. You hate what you must tell her. “We were within sight of the holy city when he fell,” you tell her. “He walks in the light of the Lord now.”

Her mouth gasps open and her hand comes up, glove a dark blot against her white face. She sinks onto your bed, a larger dark blot against the bleached linens and woolen blankets.

“I am sorry,” you say. You know you should tell her words of congratulation on her brother’s ascent to the heavens, but you can’t bring yourself to utter them, not after all you’ve seen. “I am so sorry I could not keep him safe.” Your voice breaks on the last word, just like you broke your promise to her. 

She gives off a choked sound and waves your apology away. “I know you did all you could,” she says. “He always was impetuous. I’ve no doubt he-” She breaks off again. 

“I am sorry,” you say again. You feel you sound mechanical, repetitive, insufficient; you’ve had more than five years to come to terms with the death of your childhood friend. She must have heard, like your mother, of your passing; must have thought both you and Charles dead. Might have regained hope, upon news that you have returned, that Charles might have returned with you. Humans hope, do they not, even against the greatest odds? And now that hope lies dashed. 

Her eyes move here and there unseeingly. Then they land on you again. “Do you have-” she swallows harshly. 

You nod – you know what she means – and walk over to the chest at the foot of your bed. From it you take a small wooden box; its intricate carvings blur in the low illumination that your lamp affords the room. You hold it out to her; you bartered away everything of value that you owned for your journey back to England – apart from her gift to you, and Charles’ signet ring and the letters he insisted on carrying around with him as long as he couldn’t post them.

She takes the box and opens it; you regard her face as she looks over its contents. Her eyes are gentle as if she’s seeing the face of her brother instead of his belongings; her fingers cradle the box with just as much tenderness. And yet she does not cry. 

“I knew he would not come back,” she says after a while. She packs the ring and letters back in the box and closes its lid. “My lord, my situation is… precarious at the moment.” She holds the box out to you, all traces of her grief hidden just like the box hides its insides. “Will you keep this for a while longer?”

You take the box and nod solemnly. “Of course.” Your title falls weirdly on your ears coming from her tongue; even back when you were knighted you hated when she called you ‘sir,’ and she always took advantage of it. But to tell her to call you by your given name would be improper. Childhood friends you might have been, but you’re both unwed – this is worse than when she waylaid you in the corridors; this is her in your room, unannounced and unchaperoned, dressed like a man. 

Then again, so are you. 

You try to hide the deep breath you’re taking by stowing away the box again. Your chest still hurts; you’ve kept the bandages on too long today, but it had to be done. You have a lot of work to do, a lot of things to set right. 

When you look back up at her, her head is inclined in thanks. You do not ask about her situation and its precariousness; you have your suspicions, though, and a moment later she confirms them. “James MacPherson,” she says with a grimace of distaste, “is a brute. An entitled, greedy, crude and cold-blooded serpent. He has no business calling himself a knight. The way he looked at me made me feel like nothing more than a piece of meat with a pulse.” Her lips twist angrily, and you grit your teeth as well. “At first I was able to hold off his ideas of marrying me,” she goes on, “by telling my parents that I would rather join a convent than take his hand; when they died, I turned to your mother, but then the sheriff appointed him steward and I knew Lady Bering wouldn’t be able to help me no matter how much she wanted to.”

“So you disappeared.”

“So I disappeared,” she nods. “Father Caturanga was kind enough to go along, and courageous enough to stay with us.”

“You are George,” you say as it hits you. It adds up – the attacks beginning so close after she went missing, their ingenuity, their chivalrousness. Sir Joseph Wells taught both his children all he knew; he never could deny either of them anything. But for her gender and a ceremony or two, Helena would be as much a knight as Charles was. Certainly more of one than James MacPherson, from all you’ve learned about the man.

“ _King_ George, if you please,” she says with the minutest of smirks. “Though I do not know what prompted the title, why be a knight when I can be royalty?”

“There’s a bounty on your head,” you tell her. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

She scoffs. “Now that you are back, I have faith that all of this nonsense will soon be a thing of the past.”

What could you possibly say against that? “I do plan on putting a stop to a great many things, yes.”

“As I thought, my lord.”

“Will you come back, then?” You try to keep your voice steady, free of the sudden anxiousness you feel. She is living a lie, a sin, just as much as you are – but where you were forced into it by your father; she chose it. Surely it weighs on her just as heavily as yours rests on your heart?

“Would I be welcome?” Her voice is quiet, and makes you remember how you parted.

“Always,” you tell her. You wanted it to be quiet; it comes out croaky, and you clear your throat.

“You know, we could get married, you and I,” she tells you, calm and businesslike. “Now that a union between Charles and Tracy is off the table. It is a thought I have entertained, when I considered possible outcomes.”

You try to stay as calm as she is. Have you not considered the same? Have you not wished for it, dreamed of it, in your heart of hearts? “We cannot,” you press out.

Her eyebrows rise. “Have you joined the Knights Templar, then? The Hospitallers? Another order?”

You shake your head wordlessly. 

“Are you promised, married, to another?”

You repeat your gesture.

“Then I do not see-”

Springing from your chair, you turn your back on her. “Do not ask me, Helena, I beg you,” you plead. 

“Are my actions that abhorrent to you?” she asks sharply. “I assure you, I only did what I had to do.”

“No!” you exclaim, in reply to her question. “I know that.” And you have done much worse, you add in the privacy of your head. 

“And yet you will not even look at me,” she says quietly. “Is it the clothes? My pretending to be a man?”

“My lady Helena,” you say, pleading again. “It isn’t about you.” Scrounging up your last fragments of courage, you turn to face her. 

She is so very beautiful. 

“It is about me, and only me,” you say. “I am not fit for marriage.” The heat of frustration rises into your cheeks. “I do not care what people might say about you,” you tell her. “As you say, you did what needed to be done. Believe me when I say I understand that, I respect that.” You stare at her for a breath or two. Both your chests are heaving; you need to calm down before she notices… things. “Believe me when I say it is not about you,” you add more softly. “Any man would consider himself lucky to be chosen by you.”

“You are a better fit for me than James MacPherson could ever be,” she tells you. 

“He can at least give you an heir,” you grind out. “I cannot.”

“I already have a child,” she says matter-of-factly. 

Your jaw drops. You blink. 

“That rumor is true,” she continues, calm as if she’s talking about the weather, “in case you’ve heard it.”

“What?” You clear my throat. You had not, but- “H-how?”

“Oh, the usual way, I daresay,” she tells you, easily enough that you think she must have said these words before. Then her eyes drop and you know that whatever she’ll say next is something no one else has heard. “It was… an attempt to stave him off. MacPherson. I thought to deter him; I thought if I lost my purity he would lose interest.” You can see her jaw work. “My parents were dead,” she goes on, barely above a whisper. “Tracy was dead. My brother was gone, you were gone, the baron was dead; MacPherson, the man appointed to rule over us all, was turning out to be a lech – I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

You nod. Neither she nor Charles have ever made particularly smart decisions under pressure. It is a cold thought, and you dislike yourself for it as soon as it crosses your mind. 

“Christina is the joy of my life,” she says, and a quick smile crosses her features. “While I know that lying with a man I wasn’t wed to was unwise, I cannot, _will_ not regret her existence.” Her chin comes up defiantly during those words; she stands proud and tall now. “When I realized that I had quickened, I swore to myself I would not let my child’s light be sullied by being in MacPherson’s presence, so I left. Carved out a life for myself in the Dells, found others similarly dissatisfied with MacPherson’s way of running things. Found that I had an aptitude for leading them, found that they didn’t mind being led by a woman as long as she was capable. Yes,” she adds, “they all know. They know I am female; more: they know I am Helena Wells, though I lead them on my own merit. It is only when I ride out that I hide who I am. I don’t take pride in the lie, but I do make a good leader. With Lord Warren and Tracy dead and reports of your life lost as well, the fate of the barony was unclear,” she goes on. “There was very little I could do other than what I did to right the wrongs that were being perpetrated; now though…” She looks up at you, and you shiver at the intensity in her eyes. “Now that you are back-” Her expression softens, saddens. “Now that I know I shall never see my little brother again…” She takes a step towards you and you do not move away, held immobile by her gaze. “Will you not at least consider a union between us? Do you not see that it is a good solution?”

And then she is kissing you again, and eight years fall away in a single beat of a pulse. Your mouth gasps open before her ardency and you can’t help your hands reaching for her; you have envisioned this, in your weaker moments, Lord, but you have dreamt of it. You are helpless, _helpless_ to your feelings; you drown in her nearness, lose yourself in the way she presses into you. 

You sway when the two of you break apart, and you wonder, for a brief, cold, fearful moment: is this yet another moment when she only does what she needs to do? But then you see her eyes, their rawness, their vulnerability. You know what she will say even before she opens her mouth. 

“I love you,” falls from her lips, and you close your eyes to hold in sudden tears. Your hands fall to your sides; you clench them into fists until your fingernails dig into your palms.

You have known you loved her since you first learned what love was. 

You have always known it was as forbidden as it was pointless. 

You have tried to fall out of love with her; God knows you have. Just as pointless. 

You haven’t even been able to let go of her embroidery; it rests in a pouch inside your nightdress even now. All your night garments have a pocket for it and Claud routinely, unquestioningly winds it into the bandages that bind your chest. You’ve carried it over the sea and across the desert and right back to her again.

“Michael,” she says, tone and eyes pleading.

“Myka,” you reply, unthinkingly, and then curse your tongue and the brain that didn’t rein it in. 

There is a moment of silence, then, “I know,” she says.

You blink your eyes open in surprise. 

“No one is this clean-shaven in the middle of the night,” she says, running a fingertip down your cheek. It is rough with calluses, you notice with half a mind. “No one is this clean-shaven late on the evening of their departure celebration.” Her hand curls around your jaw, and she kisses your chin. Then her hand slides lower, comes to rest atop your wildly beating heart. “Not many a man curves like this.” She leans her forehead against the bridge of your nose; I cannot move a muscle. “I’ve had my suspicions for a long time. And yes, I’ve since learned that body and soul don’t always conform, but… they do, for you, do they not? This is just a ruse, of a father worried about his succession. Isn’t it?”

You shake your head weakly. You can’t answer her question; you’ve denied this truth your whole life, with your very being. Your existence depends on it; that has been pounded into you from infanthood. And yet you gave her your name – the one you chose in the Palestine desert. To the world, you are The Right Honorable Michael Lord Bering. To Pete, you are Mykes sometimes. But in your heart of hearts, you have to… you have to have a name that’s not… A name that reflects who you are. And you gave that up to her, just like that. You cannot say any more; you mustn’t. 

You close your eyes again, resigned to your fate. Your hands flex at your sides; you want to and won’t reach for her. You cannot tell her what she is asking of you, you cannot lie to her and tell her that she is wrong, you cannot even look at her after what you two just did, the kiss you just shared. 

“Myka,” she breathes, and your name sounds like benediction from her lips.

You want to weep; your knees want to buckle and drop you into supplication at her feet. 

You do not move a muscle. You do not speak. You don’t even draw breath.

“I will keep your secret,” she says, and only then does she let go of you. “I have for eight years.” Only then does she step back. “And I do not consider you unfit for marriage over it, just for your information. Nor does it change how I feel for you.”

And then she is gone. 

You stay rooted to your spot for what seems like hours before you sink to the bed.

In your dreams, you kill shapes that turn into bodies, bodies with white faces, brown faces, foreign faces, familiar faces, until you wake up screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

Pete eyeballs you next morning and pulls you aside as the men form up around the cart. “You look like shit. Are you sure you wanna go through with this?”

You nod. “I’m good for it.”

He searches your face. “We are bound to be attacked on our way back home. You know that, right? You look as if you haven’t slept a wink.”

“We’re not up against battle-hardened Saracens, Pete. I am good for it.” Besides, you need to get the message out there that you intend to put a stop to MacPherson’s practices. And this is an opportunity to do just that. 

It’s a short trip to the hamlet of Coopsford, even at the snail’s pace the heavily fortified cart forces upon the group. On your way there, everyone takes in the terrain you ride through – forest with dense underbrush; you identify at least seven places where the group might be ambushed on your return journey. The chaplain of Coopsford won’t stop making the sign of the cross over you when you introduce yourself, he’s so happy that you’ve returned safely from the Holy Land. It’s… odd; both embarrassing and weirdly gratifying. You’ve always thought that you can use all the blessings you’ll be given.

While you focus on your conversation with the Father, Pete, as per your instructions, keeps an eye on the faces of the guardsmen – you want to know how they receive what you’re telling the priest, but of course they’re in formation behind you and you can’t see their expressions. The chapel has one hide-paned window behind the altar, through which you can see at least one head-shaped shadow listening in; the good people of Coopsford won’t need their chaplain to tell them what their baron has announced. And indeed, when you and Father Ralph walk out of the church half an hour later, with one guardsman carrying the chest to the cart, a small group has assembled before it, nervous and pushy. 

You try to rein in your own nerves, try to not wish for your armor, any armor, even just one of the mail hauberks your guardsmen wear. But you came clad in nothing more than thick woolens with the bear crest on them. You are the baron of these parts, not a guardsman. These are your people and you brought good news; you have no reason to be scared of them.

“Is it true?” someone asks from the crowd. 

“No, it’s not,” someone else answers. “Look, they are taking the chest, don’t you see? They’re not leaving it here after all.”

“His lordship isn’t leaving it _all_ here,” Father Ralph says. “We still owe him his dues-”

“But-” the first voice begins and is quickly shushed when your eyes begin to roam the crowd. You fight your impulse to get back on your horse to gain height; this is not a combat situation. You just need to tell yourself that often enough.

“We still owe him his dues,” the father repeats, “but he has announced that he will only take as much as his father took, not more. We have divided the rest up; I have everyone’s share in the church.” He points behind him to the chapel’s door where two of your men still hold guard. “Once his lordship is underway, you are free to come and claim it. Take heed that I have accounts of who gets what,” he added, “so there is no use telling me you’re owed five cheeses when it’s only three.” He casts a very pointed glance at someone in the crowd, and the others laugh. Then he looks at you. “Will this be all, my lord?”

“Indeed, Father Ralph. Thank you. And to the good people of Coopsford,” you begin, and a hush settles on the crowd. “Don’t rush him all at once,” you say dryly, to laughter that titters with nerves. “Things will change now that I’m back. For the better. We hold mass tomorrow for Sir Charles, and afterwards I will give out alms and food and, later, hold court. From now on, I will do so every other Friday, as my father did before me.” Yet another thing that Sir James abandoned. “You can bring your grievances before me then, or appeal to me if you need help. I will hear you, and do my best to make just decisions, so help me God.”

“Amen,” Father Ralph intones, and his parishioners quickly echo him. 

You give a nod of thanks in return, and only then mount your horse. “Farewell Father, everyone, until we meet again.”

Pete waits until you’re out of sight of the villagers before leaning over on his horse and nudging your shoulder. “Public speaking, eh?”

You roll your eyes and then roll your shoulders, too – you are tense and you know you will be until you’re home, and it’s not because of public speaking. If the cart gets attacked by ‘King George’ and his men, it _will_ be a combat situation. The waking hours of your night (a much greater number than those you got sleep in) was filled by your mind presenting you with scenarios of you rushing featureless adversaries, killing shapes that then solidified into bodies with her face, her face, her face. 

But then someone drops from the trees to right in front of your saddle, and though they’re cloaked and masked, you’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Her arms sling themselves around you, strong and intentional, and you swear the rush of air that leaves her as she yanks you skywards is a muffled whoop of laughter. 

Counterweights and ropes, and the three mounted guards (Pete, yourself, Sergeant Martino) are mounted no more. Truly, she is ingenious. And admiring her brilliance helps you push back on thinking of her, of them all, as shapes you need to vanquish.

“Stay,” you shout both to your soldiers and to the ‘King’s’ men, with all the authority in your command as you slowly dangle back to the ground in her arms. “We have not taken all that Sir James demanded of Coopsford. We took only the amount that my father used to take. There is no need for your redistribution, or for this attack.”

Helena – no, George; you have to think of her as George, stumbling over that would be fatal – releases his arms when your feet touch the soil again, and lightly dances away from your to just outside the reach of your sword, were you to draw it. He hasn’t drawn his, either. “So we heard,” he says. “I’m sure you won’t mind if we take a look for ourselves?”

On the front of his tunic is an embroidery that you recognize. But for a pair of wings, it is the very same that rests nestled to your heart right now; not quite an angel slaying a serpent, just a knight slaying a dragon. Now you know where George gets his name from, and if you didn’t already know who was behind the mask, you would now.

“Is your baron’s word not good enough for you?” one of your guardsmen barks even as you hide your smile. 

George’s men, seven in total, shift towards aggression in unison, and you raise your hand. “Upon my honor, I promise that I spoke the truth,” you say. “I took only the old amount of taxes, and I will continue to do so for every hamlet and village in my fiefdom. If I do need to raise levies, it will be for an indisputable reason, such as the king or the sheriff raising taxes on my estate in turn. We agree, you and I,” you nod to George, “that the previous system was unjust. That is why I’m returning to a better one.”

“Pretty words from a pretty princeling,” one of George’s men jeers, and now your men mutter in discontent.

George snaps an urgent “Hey,” at his men across his shoulder, and then opens his hands at his sides until his palms face the ground, a gesture of appeasement. Then he focuses on you again. “Surely you can give us some token to prove your intentions,” he challenges.

You nod. “Father Ralph has allowed me to take his chapel’s Eucharist chalice for just this purpose. It rests in my saddlebag as we speak; I would give it to you so you can return it to the good priest, and hear what I announced in Coopsford for yourselves.”

George hesitates briefly, then nods. “Acceptable.”

You return the gesture and bend down to open your saddlebag’s buckle. 

And then Pete shouts out in alarm, you look past your horse’s hind end, and see one of your men draw his knife, pull back his arm, whip it forward-

Time slows. Or your mind speeds up, who knows. As your eyes follow the blade’s trajectory, you know where it is headed without having to turn your head. Your left arm moves; you strain to lift is as quickly as you need to. You need to get it right-

Your gloved fist collides with the knife and knocks it out of the air, your lungs draw breath, and again you shout, “STOP!” 

It is echoed by another voice, one from behind a mask.

You look up from where the knife lies on the ground, to Pete who knows your intention immediately and lunges to apprehend the guardsman who unsheathed a blade despite his commander’s orders. Then you look forward again, and see George with one arm up in a stopping gesture and his face half-turned to his own men. You meet his eyes, he nods, you nod; you get off your horse and turn your back on him and his band. 

“Marcus Diamond,” you say, addressing the guardsman loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. Your voice is cold with fury. “Take off my crest.”

“My lord-” the man begins, struggling against Pete’s hold. Sergeant Martino steps up to him and backhands him across the face, neatly dislodging his helmet for him. 

“I am not going to repeat myself,” you say.

The man struggles out of his surcoat; he looks as though he wants to fling it at you, but the sergeant squaring his shoulders dissuades him. One of the other guardsmen takes the crested cloth, then bends to pick up the helmet too.

“Take of the hauberk,” you say next.

The look on Diamond’s face is murderous, but he complies. Standing before you in only his padded tunic, hose and boots, he’s still an imposing man, easily the largest of our group. 

“You will return to the castle with us; Sergeant Martino, I leave the rest to your discretion.”

“Yes, my lord,” Arthur’s second-in-command nods.

And only then do you turn back to George and his men. “My apologies,” you tell them. “This man acted against my express orders, and will be dealt with accordingly. I have, as of this morning, suspended all charges against you, as well as the bounty that Sir James placed on your head. I understand why you did what you did, and I trust that now the reason for your deeds is gone, your actions will cease as well. If that is the case until Christmas Day, I will announce a full pardon.”

A susurrus breaks out as every man before you breathes or moves or starts to talk to his neighbor. Your guardsmen stay calm; they have heard the news before you set out this morning. 

“But what about the man behind it all; what about your steward?” one of George’s men, easily the tallest of the bunch, asks.

“He no longer holds that office,” you reply, and see several signs of relief. “I will hold him accountable when he returns. That, too, is a promise.” 

The tall man nods, and so do some of the others. 

“We will hold you to it,” George says. “By the way, you’re bleeding.” He nods at your hand.

You lift and turn it – Diamond’s knife cut through your glove and left a gash in your flesh. It’s a couple of inches long but not deep; you’re angrier about the ruined glove than about being hurt. You’re not even feeling pain yet – ah, no, now it comes. You exhale softly, accepting it. “It is nothing.” And truly, it isn’t – not when measured against the thought of this knife embedding itself in her chest. _That_ makes your blood run cold. You turn from her – him, _George,_ you remind yourself – and busy yourself with your saddlebag. 

Your eyes meet his when you hold the chalice out, and the worry in them tries to burrow under your determination. You do your best to keep your gaze steady and unconcerned. “Till we meet again,” you say, lifting the chalice slightly in salute. 

And then you ride away from them, from George, from her.

Claud cleans and bandages your wound when we get home. “Told ya you should’ve worn the mail gauntlets, but _no,_ Sir Michael the Invincible-”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off. You still stand by that decision – with none of George’s attacks ever having a blood count, there was no reason for the lord of the manor to don mail. No, _your_ thoughts are already at the convent, wondering how you might tell Mother Irene everything you have to tell her, wondering how long it might take. You resolve to go straight after vesper, to not intrude longer into her evening that necessary, to cut down on the time in which you might talk yourself out of going entirely. 

“She’s okay, you know,” Claud says when you tell him that you’ll head out soon and where you’ll be going. “Mother Irene. A bit weird maybe, the way she never moves her face, but okay.” He blushes like a boy, hangs his head like a teenager, goes on, “I had a crush on her ward for a while. Before we left. Leena? Who runs the gardens?”

You try to suppress you smile – you did know that; anyone who knew Claud back then knew. “Really?” Your voice drips sarcasm.

Claud mock-glares at you, then rolls his eyes. “Yes, really. And a good thing too; she showed me some tricks, you know, how to treat wounds and stuff. That knot right there, she taught me that. She’s a regular Hildegard, Leena is. Never knew anyone who knew so much about medicine until, you know.”

You nod. Until your captors demonstrated how much more they knew. Ignorant heathens, your foot.

“Anyway,” Claud goes on, “sometimes when I hung out in the gardens with Leena, Mother Irene would come along and talk to us. Nicely, I mean, not in that ‘you dirty boy, get away from this precious girl’ way, you know?” He shrugs. “Would ask me what I wanted to do with my life. So, y’know, I told her I wanted to be a knight one day but I had no idea how to even start, son of a farmer and all that. She said to just take the chances I was given and work hard at them, so when the position in the stables opened up, that’s what I did, and now here I am.” He grins. “Valet to the best boss I can think of.”

His love warms you. It asks nothing more of you than being a decent person, and that’s what you’ve always striven to be. 

Later, you go through the household list with Arthur – the castle has indeed lost quite a few good men under Sir James’ stewardship. Both the master huntsman and the falconer have left, for example. Steve would fill the former position well, and Arthur has an idea who he could ask for the latter. Arthur himself will, of course, be reinstated as steward, for which he is much better suited than that of marshal. Pete can take over from him as the garrison commander; he’s a good fit for it. Would have been even before he left with you; he did come into the keep as a soldier and rose through the ranks until Sir Joseph recommended him to his son’s service. Now, he has both the rapport of someone who used to be an unranked soldier and the knowledge of a battle-experienced knight. Martino worked well with him today; there’ll be no trouble there, no envy or mistrust.

To be quite honest, you like this sort of planning. It’s a kind of puzzle – who will fit where, and what can they bring to the position? How does the estate need to be managed to give not just good yields but sustainable ones? Your father’s lectures were never your favorite, but they have come into fruition, you realize now. You can see that Sir James tried to maximize profits at the cost of running things to their bones, and you also see how that will simply not work for long. Both Arthur and you agree on this. You jot down a list of decrees you need to make, to take to the monastery later and hand to the scribe. 

You know you’re good at killing – but perhaps you can be just as good at something that you can actually enjoy, at something that is constructive rather than destructive. That’s the thought that accompanies you to Mother Irene’s study. The abbess welcomes you with her usual somber expression, and wastes no time in getting to the point of your visit. 

“Your lordship, I am ready to hear your confession,” she tells you, and you settle down in the chair she’s pointed you to. 

“Forgive me, Mother,” you begin, “for I have sinned. It has been five years, five months and thirteen days since my last confession.” It has always been easy to remember that date – you confessed last on the morning of the king’s attempt at Jerusalem, so as to go into battle in a state of grace. 

If Mother Irene marvels at the length of time, she shows no sign of it. She merely inclines her head. 

You take a deep breath. You’ve laid out your sins in your mind, chronologically from the day of the battle right up until today, and you list them now; from your broken promise to keep Sir Charles safe right up to not going to confession the moment you came near a person of the cloth after you gained your freedom.

“And do you feel contrite for these sins, my child?”

“I do, Mother.” You hesitate, and she pours you some water. You drink gratefully; you have talked for a solid twenty minutes. Despite the time elapsed, though, you are not finished with your confession. What you have listed were, as it were, the day-to-day sins. The easy ones. “However, there are two more things I must confess,” you say, setting your glass back down on her desk. 

Again, she inclines her head. 

You, meanwhile, ponder with which to begin. “Mother, when I set out for the Holy Land,” you finally say, “I did so in the conviction that I was called to do God’s will, and as a chance to do active penance for my sins, which are plentiful. However, while I was there, doubts began to creep into my heart. Too many decisions smacked of politics rather than a burning desire to free Jerusalem for Christendom, and even now the Holy City is in Saracen hands still. It took us over a year to even reach Palestine! Because we had to stop for-” you bite off my criticism of your lord and king; it is not proper. 

Mother Irene voices your treacherous thoughts. “Politics of the realm,” she nods. “My child, no doubt you have realized why those stops were necessary?”

“Alliances and funds,” you say, gritting your teeth. As much as you understand why such negotiations are necessary, they were not what you had set out for.

“Furthermore,” the abbess says, “as a knight and nobleman, are you not sworn to follow your lord’s commands?”

You bow your head. It is something you struggle with: following commands when you deem them of dubitable quality. “I am,” you say curtly. “I can add that to my sins – at times I find it difficult to take myself back and submit to authority.”

“And yet do so we must,” Mother Irene reminds you, and her voice is almost gentle. “We must trust that those in authority over us have a plan even if it escapes us. We must trust that the Lord has a plan for each of us as well, though we will never understand it, being but mortals.”

You inhale deeply, hold your breath for a few heartbeats, and let it out in a long, slow stream. “I’ll work on that.”

Something akin to a smile curls one corner of Mother Irene’s mouth. “As do I,” she tells you. “Tell me, have you thought about what the Lord’s plan for you might be?”

You swallow. “Live a pious life?”

“Ah, but we can serve him in many ways, can we not? I doubt that the way I serve him would fit you, for example.” Again there is that little curlicue of a smile.

You cast your eyes aside. “I can but humbly offer what I have,” you say. 

“Precisely,” Mother Irene says. “That is precisely what you can, no: what you must do. What we all must do. The Lord gave all of us skills and talents, and we would be remiss to not employ them in a way that most benefits his work.”

“Is that not hubris, Mother?”

“Not at all, when it’s done in His service. If one uses their talents only for their worldly glory, yes – then it is hubris.”

“But how do I tell the difference?” you ask her, bringing your eyes up to meet her gaze; this is something else you have struggled with. You know what you are good at, but you need to make sure that you don’t fall into deadly sin. Pride is insidious.

This time, Mother Irene truly does smile – close-lipped, but the corners of her mouth definitely go up. “That is what you seek spiritual counsel for, your lordship, and any man or woman of the cloth will be ready to give it.” She leans back a little. “Years back, as the crusade was underway, I heard of your prowess on the battlefield, from the archbishop of Canterbury who heard the king himself speak highly of your skills. You saved the Lionheart’s life, did you not?”

You nod. “On Cyprus, yes.”

She hums. “Now, there are men who will use such an occasion, or their capability to do battle, to further their own fame or get rich of tournament winnings – is that what you plan to do?”

“No!” you say quickly, shaken at the very thought. “No.”

“Will you join the next crusade, then?”

“The next-” Your thoughts run cold. What does she mean?

Her expression becomes intense. “There has been an attempt on Jerusalem by the Germans last year; they did not succeed, but lost Jaffa instead. The Pope has been calling for a crusade ever since he took office in January, but the kings of Europe have not thrown any support behind it; our own king is tied down in his war with France. However, they cannot deny the Church forever; a fourth crusade is certain. If the call comes, will you follow?”

“If my king commands it,” you whisper, shaken by her account. Yes, you would ride to free Jerusalem again, but-

You would rather not, you find. 

You owe your liege lord forty days of armed service; you gave him three years and did not see your home for five years more. And in your absence, your father died and your barony was run halfway into the ground; two dozen of your people have died, as many again have left for other, kinder parts of England. If you leave again – what will you come back to?

“Of course,” Mother Irene says. You would swear she has read every thought in your head, just to judge by her tone. “Outside of your fealty to your king, however: how would you employ your talents to best serve the Lord?”

You hesitate. “Mother, I am wary to think-” you begin, and then break off, trying to find the right words. “I do not want to find myself prideful, or even engage in wishful thinking rather than honest appreciation of what I should do.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Mother Irene reminds you. “Lay it out, without fear of sin, as hypotheticals for now if you will. If I see signs of pride or self-delusion I will point them out, your lordship.”

You take a deep breath. Calling you ‘your lordship’ instead of ‘my child’ has to be on purpose; a reminder of your status and your responsibility. “As baron of these land, of these people, I am responsible for their upkeep and well-being, just as you, Mother, are responsible for their spiritual needs. Is that not so?”

“Indeed it is,” she tells you.

“Before I left,” you admit, “my father planted the idea in me but it had not yet fully taken root. It seemed… dull. Though my father had shown me what it entailed, I saw tedium, a mosaic of small, unimportant details and tasks that needed an attention I wanted to direct towards… more adventurous things.”

“You were young,” Mother Irene says, with another small smile. “It is understandable.”

“I have grown older,” you tell her, and she nods. 

“Indeed you have. A bit wiser, perhaps, too.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” you say, ducking your head a little. “I do find, now, that I am… willing to take on the responsibility of all those small details, especially seeing how they have been neglected. I want to do right by my people, be a leader that improves their lot.”

“And do you think that the Lord has given you what it takes to succeed at that?”

You hesitate again, but then you nod. Your conversations with Arthur since your return, but also your observations during the crusade and while you were a prisoner, of how differently each of the leaders you witnessed approached their tasks – “I think so, yes. Thanks be to Him.”

“Amen,” Mother Irene murmurs. “Your lordship, I will be honest – this is more than I dared to hope for, when I received word of your return. I have watched matters with worry since your father’s passing, and I have prayed that upon your return you would prove to truly be his progeny. He and I might have been at odds at times, but he, like you, saw the well-being of those in his care as his highest priority. I am glad that he instilled that in you as well.”

You bite your lips together at the mention of your father. And then you remember her words of yesterday – you remember that she knows, probably, what else your father instilled in you: the lie that permeates your life, and the compulsion to keep it secret. Even now, when you are sure she knows, when you have resolved to tell her, when you have said you had two sins to confess to hold yourself accountable – even now, you find it hard to open your mouth. 

You have never willingly told anybody this. 

When you were a child barely learning to speak, your father told you of hell, of devils and demons, fire and brimstone being your destiny if anyone ever found out. For a while, you would wet yourself at the thought of someone realizing what was between your legs, and then panic all over again because you pissing yourself meant someone had to clean it up, and if that someone wasn’t your mother or Sophie the nursemaid-

You internalized all this before you learned what the concept of ‘sin’ meant. Is it any wonder you struggle with both these days?

“Remember, my child, that the body is but the vessel of the soul.”

Your eyes return to her face once more, wide with shock. That could not be more overt, could it? You gulp. “And I treat this vessel, use this vessel as a man’s,” you whisper, forcing the words out. “I hide its shape from the world; I lie about my sex, and have done so since I was old enough to understand. Mother, will-” you cast your eyes down; they are brimming. It is hard to breathe. “Will I ever be forgiven?” 

“The eighth commandment tells us to speak the truth,” Mother Irene begins, and you cannot help a tear from falling. You know; you _know._ And to sin against the commandments- “And there are plenty good reasons to call for truthfulness among men,” she goes on. “Lies corrode the trust that needs to live at the heart of society; lies not only turn the liar away from God, but deceive everyone who is being lied to, and tarnishes their relationship with the Lord as well.”

You bite down on your lip, hard and trembling. 

“However,” she says then, “as you have learned on your journey, life is… complex. And so, very much, is the topic of lying. There is no doubt that the lie itself is of the Devil, but there are gradients in its severity, depending on a few factors. Let us peruse this, shall we?”

You blink and look up at her. “Gradients?” you croak.

She inclines her head. “A murderer denying they killed someone surely is different from a child claiming they did not eat the last apple. In degree,” she reminds me, “not in nature.”

You close the mouth that you had opened, and nod instead. “I see.”

“Let us consider these four aspects,” she says, listing them on her fingers. “The nature of the truth that your lie deforms, the circumstances in which it is spoken, the intentions of the one who lies, and the harm suffered by its victims.” She gazes at you for a long moment. “The nature of the truth is that your body is that of a woman? That your father had two female children, not one son and one daughter?”

“Yes,” you breathe. It is still difficult to say it, even just that one word of confirmation. Your lungs don’t seem to work correctly, as much as you are used to breathing differently when your chest is bound. Your heart is pounding, and you know your skin is flush with blood. 

She could end your life as it has been, if she were to stand up and proclaim to the world what you just confessed; you have to put your trust in the vow every servant of God takes to honor the seal of the confessional. 

“Who knows this truth?”

“My mother,” you list. “My manservant, as well as my brother-in-arms Sir Pete and his squire. Helena-” you haven’t yet spoken of _that_ truth, you realize; of the fact that Helena has not perished on her pilgrimage but is alive and well. You swallow again; it seems as if all these lies are lodged in your throat, intent on strangling you. “-figured it out,” you go on. “The people who held me captive – the whole village knew. Fifty-two people.” You ponder your list for a moment longer, then nod. That, to your knowledge, is everyone. 

“Not even Father Caturanga?” Mother Irene’s voice is gentle, but you still flinch. 

“My father forbade it. And I was more afraid of him than-” You can’t even end the sentence.

“I understand.” She leans forward now, in a gesture you want to interpret as open and caring, but it still feels as if she’s encroaching on you. Again you swallow, trying hard as you can not to lean back to maintain distance. She notices and does it for you, and your shoulders relax the smallest fraction. “Whose idea was this lie?” she asks.

“My father’s.” Both he and your mother have told you so. “He wanted the barony to stay in the family, to stay with someone he had raised, not a daughter’s husband whose views he could not know as deeply as he could shape mine.”

“So his ultimate concern was how this estate would be managed?”

You nod. “That is what he impressed on me, yes. ‘I’m not doing this for the vanity of my name, son, I’m doing this for the people I am put in charge of.’ That is what he would say, or similar words to that effect.”

Mother Irene gives a low, pensive hum. “See, _that_ would be hubris,” she says after a while. “The Lord gave him two daughters, and instead of accepting that, or finding another way to have a son-” 

“My mother was frail and almost died in childbirth,” you cut in. “She would not have survived another-”

“I am well aware of that,” Mother Irene says sharply. “Mother Rebecca, may the Lord rest her soul, informed me. She was a skilled physician; I believed her just like your father did.”

You bow your head, duly chastised. 

“Still,” Mother Irene presses on, “your father could have chosen to adopt a child. He could have chosen to appeal to have his marriage to your mother annulled, and married someone else to birth him an heir. He could have chosen to take an active role in teaching your future husband the ways in which he wanted his estate to be ruled. But he chose the lie, and in doing so tarnished not only his soul but yours as well. I understand the situation he put you in, my child, and I don’t envy you it.” She huffs out a sigh. “Let us be clear on that – it is one of the four aspects I mentioned earlier: intentions. This lie was not your intention, but his. What is yours?”

“To do well by my people,” you say at once. “It always has been.” You suck in a breath. “Mother, you also spoke of the harm that the victims of the lie suffer; were I to confess to that lie, what would happen to the people of Bering? Am I guilty of vanity wondering if they are better off with me perpetuating that I am the lord of the manor?”

“You yourself said that you have the talent suited for the task,” Mother Irene says. “And your concern for your people honors you. However, neither of us can know what the Lord intended when he gave your father two daughters and no male heir. A lie does not become less of a sin because people have become used to it. However, let us not fall into the trap of seeing this as a situation with only two possible outcomes – you perpetuating your father’s lie and everyone living happily ever after on the one hand, or you confessing it and calamity ensuing on the other. Because the potential of the next baron of Bering being a bad one is only that: a potential. You could choose a husband who would help protect the fiefdom and its people, whose goals align with yours.”

Your first thought is of a masked figure with laughing brown eyes, and you blink in surprise. 

“Or you could reveal your truth and simply continue in your role,” Mother Irene goes on, and now your mouth drops open. “You have proven yourself capable despite the shape of your soul’s vessel. Women have been knighted before; there is a whole order of them in the earldom of Barcelona. Women have held position of powers before as well, and titles in their own rights – they still do, most eminent of them the king’s mother herself. Richard the Lionheart is no stranger to women wielding unusual power – and he thinks highly of Sir Michael the Avenger.”

“But-”

“Your lordship,” she goes on, and now she’s truly smiling, “I have grown up being told that a black woman can’t do this, a black woman can’t do that, that the best I could hope for was a moderately understanding husband if I was lucky. And now look at me.” She gestures around the room with a small chuckle. “Not just a bride of God but a mother superior, undisputed head of thirteen sisters, spiritual guide to the lord of the manor.”

“Just take the chances you are given and work hard at them,” you repeat Claud’s words.

“Precisely,” she nods diffidently. 

“Much to think about,” you bring out.

“Indeed. And while we consider this, we should not lose sight of another victim of your father’s lie,” she says, and now her gaze is so kind it takes your breath away. “You yourself, my child. I cannot see this as being easy for you.”

You look aside. “It isn’t,” you whisper. Two words that try to bring across the tide that’s rising inside you now, of how you loathe yourself for sinning, of how you are uncertain of who you are, of how you fear for your soul every day.

“This is one way in which lies tarnish even innocent souls,” Mother Irene says quietly. “You, an innocent child, were put in fear, were forced to do exactly the opposite of what God wants us to do: he wants us to live our truth, you were made to hide it.”

“But I am no longer a child,” you protest. “I could have stopped.”

“Could you? Can we? When the fourth commandment tells us to honor mother and father, to obey them? Make no mistake,” she tells you, “your father did you a great wrong.”

You bite your lips together; you don’t want to hear anyone give voice to this thought that has long lurked as a suspicion in your heart. You don’t want to think of your father as a wrong-doer; the idea that this whole scaffolding of lies around you is based not in something he was right in doing, but in something wrong? And if he did wrong in that, how much else of what he did was wrong; how much of what he taught you is wrong? How much of what you think, how you think, was shaped by him, wrongly-

It’s getting difficult to breathe, thinking these thoughts. 

“My child,” Mother Irene says. You hear pain in her voice. “I worry for you. I can see the turmoil in your eyes, and I can only imagine what you might be going through. You are not fully guilty of this sin, but you are not wholly innocent, either. It is a difficult knot to unravel, and I would help you if I may – perhaps not tonight; I doubt this is solved that easily. Would you be willing to pursue this further, to find a solution that will bring you back into God’s grace?”

“Yes, Mother,” you say immediately. 

“Good. That is very good.” She nods. “Then I will hold your sin of lying to not be grave enough to deny you communion at mass tomorrow, my child.” She makes the sign of the cross over you, and your shoulders in relief. “I also absolve you of the sins you committed while away.” 

“Thank you, Mother.” You drop on your knees before her and kiss her ring; then you rise. “I bid you good night, Mother Irene.”

“Good night, your lordship.” You are at the door when she speaks out again. “We all of us are sinners,” she says. “I hold in your favor that you are very obviously aware of what is wrong and what is right, and willing to do what is right, both in the eyes of the Lord and for your people. You are fighting towards truth, towards goodness. Hold on to that, my child; hold fast on to it. It is a part of your truth; do not lose sight of it, and trust in the Lord that He will find a way for you to live your whole truth untarnished by lies.”

Tears spring into your eyes; you know that these words, this quiet reassurance, will ring in your heart for the rest of your life. “Amen,” you whisper.


	5. Chapter 5

You have managed to grab a few hours of sleep the night before, but it hasn’t been enough – you are still drowsy as you sit through the mass in Sir Charles’ honor. You’ve put a small pebble in your shoe to help you stay awake, but even so, your mother has to pinch you twice. 

The service is being held at the monastery’s church, much larger than the castle’s chapel. This also means that Mother Irene is leading it, which in turn seems to leave a bad taste in Father Remigius’ mouth, to judge by the sour look on his face. Something to keep in mind; it’s not good if the two main spiritual advisors of this barony are at odds.

You do enjoy the mass; it has been long since you heard one, and the nuns’ singing is beatific. It is an oddly two-sided occasion, with solemn grieving for the fallen Sir Charles as well as joyous thanks for your return and that of Claud, Pete, and Steve. The emotions pull you here and there, and exhausted as you are, your heart is weary of the tug-of-war. 

The weather when you step out of the church afterwards is dreary, overcast and blustery with squalls of rain that bite with the cold of upcoming winter. The number of people asking for alms is staggering; their appearance almost more so. 

“Has he taken the very clothes off their backs?” you whisper to Arthur as he hands out coins next to you to people barely clad in shirts, much less tunics or boots. 

“All but,” he grinds back. 

Your thoughts of MacPherson grow darker and darker. “My good people,” you announce when the throng is finally beginning to thin, “there is food waiting for you in the great hall; afterwards, I will hear your grievances and petitions.”

You are glad now that you heeded Arthur’s advice on how much food needed to be prepared for the event; the line snakes out the door and through most of the courtyard.

You partake of the same meal as them – soup with bread – in the great hall, and then the lower tables are pushed to the walls to clear space for the hearing. Again the line is long. After looking at the crowd, you send for Sister Anna to take notes; even with your memory being as good as it is, you know you have no hope of remembering this many cases. Then you listen grimly to what your people bring forth. Mostly their grievances are with one another, but underneath many of them you can make out the despair of facing unjust treatment with no recourse. 

The worst thing is that MacPherson has taken the bulk of the money he pressed out of your people with him to his meeting with the sheriff; it is quite literally out of your hands, and you see very little chance of getting it back. Ethical or moral judgement aside, he was within his rights to do what he did, and if this is payback to the sheriff for granting him the posting, there isn’t much you can do about that beyond appealing to the king as a higher power – and seeing as he is bound up in France, the chance of that being successful seem equally slim. 

Where you can help with what resources you have, you promise to do; Mother Irene, too, has offered her assistance. Any person or family facing homelessness, for example, or without enough fuel to provide habitable warmth in their own home can winter in the castle or the monastery, and she and you will take turns providing meals twice a day for anyone too poor to feed themselves. But this is just immediate relief for the upcoming cold season and will do little in the long run for those households who, like Claire and her husband, were forced to sell off livestock or other foundations of their livelihood for quick coin. 

Your heart grows heavier and heavier with each case you hear.

And then a whisper runs through the crowd and they part to reveal a person clad in hood and cloak and mask.

“My lord baron,” George the Dragonslayer says, sweeping a courtly bow. “I hear that you are offering aid to your people.”

What is she – he – doing here?! “I do,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. Pete is making his way from the hall’s doors to George’s side and you approve of that, remembering a knife whistling through the air.

“I am here to join the effort,” George says. He gives a signal, and two men come up behind him, carrying a large wooden box between them. “My war chest, if you will,” George adds nonchalantly. “A small percentage of what I took, held back in case I needed funds – now that you are back and I have confirmed your motives, I trust,” he puts a lot of emphasis on the word; you understand the implications, “that it will no longer be needed. It was never mine to begin with – all the coin herein was taken from MacPherson’s coffers, and ultimately it belongs to those from whom it was wrongfully taken. I ask that only that you use it to help your people.”

There’s an uproar, and both of his men as well as Pete square themselves up against the crowd. 

You rise from your chair and bellow, “Quiet!” As the room falls silent, you let your eyes roam the faces in it. “Good man George, in the name of my people I thank you. This contribution will indeed help, and I shall do my utmost to see that it is applied where it can do the most. My good people of Bering,” you go on with a gesture that encompasses everyone, “I ask you to understand.” You have to raise your voice again because mutterings are growing now. “I ask you to understand,” you repeat, “that most of what Sir James has taken is no longer in my reach, and what is in this chest will not be enough to simply reimburse everyone. In the spirit of charity and neighborly love I ask of you not to expect that. A great many of you have been hurt, and I will do what I can to redress that. Sister Anna here has taken account of every case brought before me today; she and I will keep hearing your cases until all of you have had your say, if not today, then in two weeks. Where coin can help, it will, I promise. I would rather, however, that twenty people receive one coin to help ease their plight, instead of one person receiving the twenty they might feel they’re owed, and nineteen others go hungry. Do you understand?”

The mutterings sound a bit mollified now, and there’s the odd ‘Aye’ intermingled with them. Then Pete speaks up. “Your lord asked your understanding,” he calls. “Will you give it, you who are here, and carry his promise to those who are not?”

“Aye,” the answer comes from at least a dozen throats now. 

You nod. “Thank you all,” you tell the crowd. “My guards know by now,” you add, “and I would all of you to know as well, that there is no longer bounty on nor charge brought against this man and his fellows.” You point at George and he sketches a bow. “Let it be known that they are free to go within these lands, and that I consider their deeds forgivable in the light of recent events.”

“My strife was with Sir James MacPherson and his unjust taxes,” George adds, “not with the lord of the manor or justified duties.”

You lean forward across the table and hold out your hand. “Then we have an accord,” you say. “You and your men will cease your attacks on my money carts, and in turn I will not prosecute you. And if this peace holds until Christmas Day, I will pardon you and everyone who followed you.”

One could hear a pin drop now. Then George approaches the table and takes your hand. “Aye.”

“Let it be witnessed,” you say, loudly, to Sister Anna, Arthur, Pete, and the rest of the room. 

Your reinstated steward is the first to reply. “Aye,” Arthur says. His face is tight but not hostile – it was his men who were attacked, bloodless or not. ‘Not hostile’ is the best you can hope for from him.

And then people begin to cheer, and as you look around the room you realize they’re cheering for the person still grasping your hand. You give him a smile, withdraw your hand and knock it lightly on the table in invitation – and he takes it, jumping up in one lithe motion and spreading his arms wide as the cheers grow loud in appreciation. For a moment he stands there relishing his accolades, then he holds his hand out to you. You join him on the table, to even louder applause. You feel a tad awkward standing above your people as they shout and clap, but sometimes ruling needs pageantry.

“Your hand alright?” he asks, quiet enough that it drowns in the hubbub.

You allow your smile to deepen and squeeze his hand that your right, sound hand still clasps. You did tell him that it was nothing; his continued worry is sweet, though, and it warms you that he is so well-liked by your people. 

“The service was lovely,” he adds. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” So he not only dared come here, but come to church as well? Then again, he is not only George the Dragonslayer, but Helena too, sister of the man for whom the mass was held.

And then, in a whirl of brown and green, he’s gone, as quickly as he came.

You have Pete and three guardsmen take the chest to the donjon’s strongroom, and spend the rest of the afternoon hearing yet more grievances. Arthur comes in with the vesper bell and dispels those who still wait, telling them to come back in two weeks; as the hall empties, he pulls me aside. “You look terrible,” he grumbles under his breath. “Get food and get rest. Take tomorrow off. You have done nothing but work since you returned; the good Lord knows you need a break.”

“I can rest on Sunday,” you protest weakly. You long to give in to his request; you know you are on your last breath.

“You can _also_ rest on Sunday,” he says pointedly. And _then_ he adds, “My lord.”

Your laugh is as feeble as your protest has been. “Alright, then.”

He nods his approval, then hands you a folded-up parchment. “This was in George’s chest. It’s addressed to you.”

You blink, not registering what his words mean until he’s pushed you out the side door into the corridor that leads to the kitchen. You rub your eyes with your left hand, hissing when the motion pulls at your wound, and turn the letter over in your right. The blob of wax that seals it has been pressed down only by a thumb, not a seal; still you know who this is from. 

Excitement puts a bit of spring in your steps as you enter the kitchen and ask for a platter of food to take up to your room. The cook plies you with stew, bread, cheese and warmed wine, calling for a page to carry the tray for you with many a poignant look at your bandaged hand. You wait impatiently for the boy to set the table and light the candles, and dismiss him the moment that he’s done, disappointed though he looks to be deprived of the chance to wait on you. 

The moment the door closes behind him, you pry open the seal and unfold the parchment. 

> They say the way to Hell is made plain with stones, but I tell you it is a shallow in the river, easily forded. And if a man were to carry a goose feather about his person, white as snow, the devil’s guards might let him pass, yea might even take him to the very center.

You frown and turn the page over, but this is it. 

Your stomach’s growl cuts through your thoughts, and you begin to eat the stew as you ponder what the words might mean. And then your spoon stops in mid-air as it hits you (you blame your weariness for how long it took): this is Helena telling you how to find her. It was Charles who would call her epithets based on the first syllable of her name, and when you were still a child, you’d sometimes join him. As you grew into a- well. Not into a man. An adult. As you grew into an adult, you stopped the habit, realizing that it was at odds with how you felt for her. 

She loves you. She has said that. She knows that you, too, are a woman, and has said that it changes nothing about how she feels. 

In one way, this is all you ever longed for. But never prayed for, though, because surely this is sinful? If man is forbidden to lie with man, surely the same applies to women? Helena, the way you know her, might argue that since women are not strictly mentioned the rule does not govern them, but you have your doubts, as always. 

You are so steeped in sin; you do not want to add to it. 

But the truth of the matter is that you love her, too – and not just the way friend is supposed to love friend. Her kiss – kisses; there were two of them – left no doubt that you desire her. And now you find yourself wondering whether you have lied to yourself about your identity so much, so deeply, that you now see her, a woman, as an appropriate person to love. Perhaps that, too, is a way in which your lie has tarnished you?

Your lips tingle, though, as you think of those two kisses, and you quickly drink of the wine to make it stop, but it doesn’t. If anything, the wine makes it worse. All your ponderings about this sin and that sin and all of the sins you combine within you start turning circles in your head, until you’re ready to pound it against the walls to quieten it. 

Instead, you throw open the window to let the air clear your mind. The night is deep now; the rain has stopped and the moon is out, bathing the land in its otherworldly light. It is cold, but not the cold of the desert mountains you’ve lived in for the last five years. This cold is damp, and it smells like rot and decay. Your conscious brain knows that this is simply the scent of an English November, but when you lie down and try to sleep, your dreams parade half-withered corpses past your eyelids. 

In between the nightmares, you count the bells that the gatekeeper rings as he watches not just the road but the hourglass as well. 

Eleven, twelve. 

You pray for restful sleep, kneeling on the cold stone floor and imploring fervently up to the heavens, but no reply is forthcoming and no dreamless sleep, either.

You throw on a cloak and go for more wine, hoping that inebriation will help, but the dreams that follow make you vomit into your chamber pot.

One, two. 

The blankets and furs stifle you; too many, too heavy, too warm. You throw them off, and in the process discover that you are restless. Moving your limbs becomes a craving, so you wrap your chest as best you can on your own, and dress for the outside. You grab your staff and head to the gate – it is light enough from the full moon that you can take a walk if you stick with the roads and stay out of the forest. 

Old Sergeant Dickinson salutes as he opens the wicket gate for you. 

“Just a quick stroll,” you tell him. 

“Oh, aye, my lord,” he says. “Fine night for it.” 

Of all the men in our castle, now that Sir Joseph is dead, Old Sarge has seen the most battles. If anyone knows why you feel restless, it’s him. 

“Any idea when you’ll be back, your lordship?”

You shake your head; the road beckons you, now that the way is clear. “Not really, no.”

“Not to worry,” he tells you. “You’ll be back when you’ll be back, eh, your lordship? Won’t nobody harm you, after what you done today. Knock on any door, sir, they’ll see you warm and cozy.”

My good man, you want to tell him, I do not sleep well under my own roof; I doubt I’ll find sleep in a stranger’s home. Instead you just nod and walk forward, out of the gatehouse’s shade. Moments later, you hear the wicket creak shut behind you. You walk away from the keep at a brisk pace. You want to run; your limbs yearn to work, but it wouldn’t do to be seen running away from your own stronghold, not even by potentially understanding Old Sarge. So you walk, until you’ve crested the hill and know you’re out of sight.

And _then_ you run. 

Try though you might, though, you cannot outrun the specters on your heels. Your breath burns in your chest; your heart hammers your blood against your bindings in long-forgotten pain. You haven’t run while bound since before you were taken captive. You try to look at it positively, try to see the pain a simple proof that you’re alive against all odds, but it’s hard when you resent the need to bind this much. And you find no solace in the idea of being alive, not when Charles is dead, not when so many are dead – not just crusaders in the Levant, but people right here at home. Steve’s sister and both his parents. Pete’s grandfather and sister. Every household seems to have lost at least one member, and the fever didn’t care if they were frail or strong. And the survivors were hard-pressed to keep their homes under a greedy steward. You failed to take back Jerusalem for the Lord, and you failed your people in leaving them with James MacPherson. You had hoped to find penance for your sin of lying, and then your stay with the Saracen women village has left you more torn up over it than ever before. 

Your steps pound the road’s gravel, then dirt, then grass that wets your feet and makes you finally realize where your feet have taken you. 

The Dells. 

You almost give a bitter laugh – of course. 

Mist is hanging among the trees, thick as soup. It looks enchanted; one would expect to find a dragon here, and its slayer too. You should not go forward; the Donovan farm is not far from here – that’s where you should head. There are countless reasons why walking into the Dells in the middle of the night is a bad idea. 

But your brain is full of ghosts and doubts and yearning, and into the woods you go.


	6. Chapter 6

The fog is otherworldly; its uniformity slowly leaches your thoughts from your brain. You can barely see ahead of you, and the only reason you’re not hopelessly lost twenty steps in is the river that you follow. 

River, shallows, ford. That’s what she wrote, that’s what you remember, that’s what you cling to in the mist. River, shallows, ford, your thoughts repeat as you trudge through the murk. River, shallows, ford. This is the river; at the shallows you shall ford. River, shallows, ford. Somehow, these three concepts fill your head entirely. You barely have enough wherewithal to keep yourself from stumbling; it’s much darker here among the trees, even though most of them are bare with winter. Your staff helps. Tap, step, step. Tap, step, step. River, shallows, ford. River, shallows, ford. You don’t even remember where you’re going anymore, only that you’re going there. You’ll follow the river till you find the shallows, then you’ll ford.

Something important waits for your there. 

River, shallows, ford. 

Tap, step, step. 

There, those are shallows.

Tap, step, splash. 

Splash, splash. One dig with the staff, one placed foot. 

The water is cold and takes the rest of your ability to think right along with it. 

Forward. Splash, splash. Dig, step. Splash, splash. Forward. 

So cold.

Your moves are rote now, and then your fool’s luck runs out.

The splash is the biggest one yet and through it, you think you hear a yell. Then the water closes over your ears.

So cold. You gasp in shock, and choke in water.

Hands grab your arms; you’re sagging between them, helpless and sputtering. You’re entangled in cold and wet and heavy. It binds your legs and leaches all warmth from your limbs. Words rain down on you devoid of meaning; your ears ring with water still and your thoughts have not returned. 

A faceless dark shade rises in front of you, towering above where you kneel, and one memory returns, a line about the devil’s guards. You cower – are you dead? Is this hell?

And then a mask is pulled aside and _her_ face appears, pale as the moon, wreathed in shadow. Is she dead too? Is she among the devil’s guards, come to take you? Did you kill her after all? You try to search your memories and fail; she gasps and says something you can’t make sense of. And then she pulls at your chest, at what’s covering your chest, and the reaction to that is pure instinct: you slap her hands away. No one must touch.

Or try to, anyway; your arms are not yours to use. Held, you are being held.

She’s speaking again, one word over and over and over. You shake your head, trying to dislodge the water from your ears to stop them ringing, but all that does is make you heave. 

You sag forwards. Your weight twists your shoulders and you howl with the pain of contorted muscles, then your arms are moved to accommodate. She wields a knife in front of you and you struggle to get away, but the holds on your arms have tightened again and she-

She cuts through something, and the cold, wet, heavy is peeled away from you. You are still cold and wet and now wind is cutting through to your skin; you thought hell would be hot, what with all the fire. Then warm and heavy wraps around you and you burrow into it. And then she says something, and you are let go, and she tugs at your hand, and you rise and follow her. 

Something important. She’ll take you there, you know. You would follow her anywhere.

You stumble often. Your feet are two lumps of ice at the end of two stilts barely under your control, and there is no path that you walk, just ground that grabs at you and makes you fall against her. She catches you every time, and holds you both up. And then you stumble again and reel into darkness that bites you and holds you and pulls you in the more you struggle. 

She calls something that sounds like your name but not. There is despair in her voice and you fight with all you have to get away from what has caught you. With one last almighty heave you are free, and the suddenness of it catapults you into her. She wraps her arms around you tightly, and for a moment you are content to rest your head on her shoulder. But then your body shudders with cold, and she takes her arms off you, takes your hands, lifts them and turns and twists under them as if the two of you are dancing, and then your hands are on her shoulders as you stare at the back of her head – her hair is shorter than a woman’s, dancing around her collar like a man’s – and she takes a step forward and you follow.

You will follow her wherever she leads. 

She is patient whenever you stumble into her, but she walks you down a path safe of monsters of darkness that bite and snare until you’re out in the moonlight again. 

She leads you to the edge of something filled with mist, and then turns and hugs you. Your arms come up all by themselves to embrace her in turn, and then you’re weightless, sinking into the mist as if floating – down or up, you cannot say; there is no river to give you direction here.

It doesn’t matter; you will follow her. Into the depths of hell if that’s where she takes you; you know that is where you’re headed sooner or later anyway, and at least she’s here now. 

Something dark looms up before you and she leads you straight towards it; when the two of you reach it, it is not solid but an opening, and then there is a scrape and a scratch and light that blooms. A candle, and her skin is golden now, gilded alabaster. 

She leads you further into the darkness with the light in her hand. 

The air is warm on the skin of your face; the rest of you is still cold and wet and heavy. And then she bids you stop, and puts her light on the wall and her hands on your shoulders, and the heavy slides off them and pools around your feet. Her fingers reach for the hem of your tunic next; it’s cold and sodden and you detest the motion of it along your skin, you help her remove it, impatient for it to be gone. You let yourself be pushed into sitting, let your legs be lifted and your boots and hose tugged off, but then her hands reach for your shirt and you shy back. 

She shushes you as if you were a spooked horse, all soft sounds in a low voice.

“It’s alright, Myka. It’s alright; I know. I _know._ Myka, it’s alright.”

And that makes sense – anyone who’s ever called you Myka has known what is under your shirt. You try to still your body. She tries again, and you shudder as the cold, wet cloth clings to your skin. Then she’s talking to you again, tugging you up to stand. 

You do, and you blink, and she’s naked before you. 

The air is warm, and she tugs you further, and it gets warmer still. There’s a pool in the ground lit gold all around, and she steps into it and holds out her hand, coaxing you closer by calling your name. 

The pool’s water burns on your skin – are you become devil, to burn at being christened?

Still she calls your name; you hesitate. You said you would follow her, into hell itself, didn’t you? And there she stands before you, in the pool up to her navel, not burning, not dissolving, just reaching for you.

The water no longer stings; it feels warm now, that is all. You sink into it, towards her, give out a strangled breath as warm, warm, warm envelops you, the water and her arms and you don’t have to go no further. 

You are here. 

And here you stay.

* * *

You don’t know how much time has passed when you open your eyes again. You’re lying in a curiously warm pool of water, naked but for your binding and your underpants – you gasp at the realization. There’s movement next to you and you flinch. Water sloshes around you as you try to move away-

“Myka.”

Your name. _Your_ name. She speaks it differently than the Saracens did, and you realize that you will never get enough of hearing her say it. 

You still; you don’t need to flee from her. She knows your secret, has kept it for years. And then you realize that while you are almost naked, she is fully so, and you are in this pool together, and your eyes snap shut.

“Myka,” she says again. “Beloved, will you not look at me?”

“It is not proper,” you press out. The sight of more of her body than you have seen since you were all toddlers together has burned itself into your eyeballs. Even distorted by water, even obscured by the room’s murky light, her beauty overwhelms you. 

She gives that cut-short chuckle you know so well; the one that says she would love to laugh out loud but is suppressing it. “Myka, we have been in this pool together for half an hour.”

“That may be so,” you flounder, “but… I… wasn’t exactly in my right mind.”

She hums her understanding. You hear water glug as she moves, and then she says, “There. Nothing to see anymore.”

You open your eyes and then groan – all she has done is pull her knees up to her chest and cross her legs at the ankle. Technically, yes, she is correct. It just doesn’t help you much. 

“Eyes up here,” she says, again with that chuckle. “Surely you can do that?”

You tear your eyes away from her knees – her knees, of all things; there are bruises on them, scrapes – and lock them onto her face. Her eyes are dancing with mirth and you feel your cheeks burn. 

This is very familiar. All through adolescence, this was what went on between the two of you. She loved to make you blush, though usually not with innuendo; she had some mercy. The thought is soothing somehow, and you relax a little, and mimic her posture. 

“Not cold anymore, then?” she asks. “A bit more coherent, too?”

You nod, and look around the room. “Where are we? What is this place?”

“Caves,” she replies, craning her own head to look. “And a hot spring deep inside them. We made this pool to take advantage of it. Isn’t it wonderful?”

You find yourself agreeing – bathwater that stays warm for half an hour? That springs hot and does away with having to heat cauldron after cauldron over fire? “Yes,” you say. You try to patch together the memory of your trip through the forest; it is still exceedingly disjointed, and you frown. “How did I get here?”

This time, she lets her chuckle run free. “You picked the worst possible night to come here; I wouldn’t have thought that you’d make your way to us right after I told you how. You can count yourself lucky that I was standing guard alongside Toby and Coppice. They pulled you out of the water and were getting ready to lay into you to find out who you were; I vouched for you so they let you be. Just, in the future, perhaps don’t lunge at me when I try to get you out of a sodden wool coat?”

Blood rushes into your cheeks again. “Apologies,” you murmur. Your bindings, soaked as they are, strain against your chest, and you shift where you sit. You wish you could take them off, but you are uncomfortable enough already; right now, they offer reassurance. “The… darkness we walked through. What was that?”

“Brambles,” she says with a smirk. “Between the river and here. A good, thick bramble thicket, with only a few pathways through it that you have to know to find. Good protection; bit nasty when you stumble into it, though.”

“I fought with brambles,” you realize. You hang your head in embarrassment. 

“Tore my coat to shreds in the process,” she confirms.

 _“Your-”_ you groan. Your blush deepens, as does your discomfort. She gave you her coat for warmth, replacement of yours that was soaked with cold river water, and you ruined it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright; we have more,” she says. “You were… the mist that hangs in the undergrowth between the edge of the forest and the river – it addles the mind. That’s what I meant with picking the worst night. Even we stay well on this side of the river when the fog rises. And it takes a while for the effects on the mind to dissipate. I do not hold you responsible for my coat, or your struggle,” she adds lightly. 

You swallow, still feeling uncomfortable. “I thought I was dead and you were taking me to hell,” you admit.

She hums, voice alive with amusement again. “I’m surprised you followed without complaint, then.”

“I’d follow you anywhere,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

She is silent for a long moment. And when she says, “Myka,” the tone of her voice makes you look at her. 

There’s longing in her eyes, sheer and unmistakable. You cannot meet her gaze long; you fear what you might do. 

“Why do you hold back?” she asks when you look away. Now her voice is pained, as though you hurt her. 

It is all too much. You want- 

You _want,_ you suddenly realize. You want, with a strength that leaves you breathless. You want to love her, want to tell her you love her, want to hold her and live with her for the rest of your life, just like other people do when they love. You want to hear her call you Myka. You want to hear everyone call you Myka. The Right Honorable Myka Lord Bering, no: _Lady_ Bering. Wouldn’t that be something? You want, you want, you _want,_ and the fierceness of it pushes tears into your eyes that spill over before you can bite them back. 

You see her reaching for you; you see her stop herself. You want, you want, you want her arms around you – they would be so gentle, so comforting. Loving. Loving arms around you.

Your tears fall harder, hot even against the warm water that you sit in. 

“Myka,” she says, tears in her voice, tears on her face.

“I want,” you say, and all the words that might follow these two are backed up within your throat like driftwood clogging a river in spring. “I want,” is all you can bring out, and then she is in your arms and you in hers and you have no idea how it happened. All you know is her.

You sob, once, and her arms tighten around you, hold you through the unending moment it takes you to suck in the next breath, hold you through the next sob and the one after, hold you through the gasp of anguish that breaks from you when she whispers your name into the crook between your neck and your shoulder. 

You have never cried like this; you shake in her embrace like aspen leaves, cling to her as if she is the only thing that keeps you from drowning. Your thoughts are disjointed, flutter from her to her brother, buried in distant lands by strangers who, polite though they were, were strangers, to the blood-drenched fields of Arsuf where you lost your count of how many men you’ve killed, to your father standing over you with a furious face, to the shame you felt at every incomplete confession with Father Caturanga, to the nightmares that haunt you whenever you try to sleep.

You cry and cry and cry, over each of those and what they made of you: a soul filled with lies and sin and guilt, unquenchable, unforgivable, insurmountable. You cry in torment and self-loathing, and through it all she holds you and you wonder why; surely she must realize how broken you are. But she’s here and her arms don’t waver. She holds you and holds you and holds you; she croons and croons and croons your name into your neck as if it’s a tether that’ll bind you to this world, as if she’s afraid that if she doesn’t, you’ll slip into the next. 

You try to draw breath for the next sob and it doesn’t come; your chest is seizing. It hurts, and you curl into yourself, away from her.

And then her fingers are at the ribbons that hold your bindings shut; their motion and intent terrifies you. You bring your hands up in defense but your vision is narrowing and your strength has been spent in tears. She catches your hands and stills them, saying your name over and over again until it is all that rings in your mind, and then she reaches for your bindings again and you try to hold still, you fight and you strain to hold still, sucking in short gasps of air that don’t fill your lungs. Halfway through unwrapping the bandages from your chest, something falls from between them and flutters down into the water. She catches it and the most peculiar look of gentle, sad happiness crosses over her face; you know that you recognize what it is she’s looking at, but you’re out of air and your body has stopped doing what you ask of it. The bandage falls away at last and still your lungs won’t expand. You panic, and then there’s a spot of warmth pressing right over your heart, and words in your ear. 

“Up here, Myka. Make my hand move. Come on, breathe. Push against my hand; out and up, come on.”

You try. You really do. You do try, but your chest doesn’t want to move this way, still clad in invisible but iron-hard bindings. 

A hand curls around your jaw, leans your head forward against hers, strokes your cheek. 

“Come on,” she whispers, and you can feel her breath move against your skin, but your own breath won’t come and you release the last air you have in a whimper. “Breathe, Myka. For God’s sake, breathe!” Her last word is a growl, a barely suppressed shout of frustration, and then she pinches your earlobe. 

The pain is so intense that you gasp, and blessed, blessed air fills your lungs at last. You can feel the fingers on your chest dig into your skin once, briefly, in triumph, and now you can follow her instruction, now you can make her hand move, up, up, up and out, shuddering with relief. 

She’s back to murmuring your name again, and you let its rhythm regulate your breathing. Her arm is still curled between the two of you, fingers and palm spreading warmth on your sternum that reminds you how, where to breathe. Her other hand is up at your jaw still, and now you realize that there’s cloth between its skin and yours, scratching softly against your cheek.

Her embroidery. The Archangel Michael slaying the serpent, and suddenly you wonder if that is where she took her moniker from – Michael and George, so similar in depiction and symbolism, so often confused for each other. You both did a similar thing, after all, disguising yourselves as men to accomplish your goal.

The embroidery, and she who made it, is something to think about that is not death or sin or guilt, and you focus on it, tired of death and sin and guilt. You focus on telling apart the texture of the fabric from the texture of her calluses, you focus on where her elbow, pointy as ever, pokes into your stomach, and then you realize that your unbound breasts are pressed against hers and you gasp as desire, instant and silver, sparks within you. You move – you couldn’t possibly begin to tell the intention of that move: away from her or closer into her, but the result is your mouth against hers. Your breath stutters again for a different reason and you want in an entirely new way now.

Your mouths and bodies move in unison, but then your thoughts catch up with you and you tear yourself away, lips gasping open and heavy with arousal. She looks stunned and then her eyes cloud with frustration and anger, and she bites her lips together and tears her gaze aside. 

“Is this how it’s going to be, then?” she presses out. “Because I will tell you right now, I am not available for that.”

“You… What?” You don’t understand.

“Don’t toy with me!” she flings at you. “Kiss me if you will, fine, but _only_ if you will, you hear? Only if you’re going to follow through. If you have misgivings, also fine, but then don’t kiss me like that!”

You gape at her, and then you snap your mouth shut. You’re back to wanting; it’s easy to fall back on, you’ve done it for forever. “It isn’t proper,” you say, feeling as though you’ve told her that a thousand times. And for every time you’ve told her, you’ve told yourself a thousand times over. 

She presses her eyes together, her lips together, pain etched into every taut line of her face. “To hell with proper,” she whispers, fierce and bone-deep.

Your eyes fly open in shock. 

“They tell you that to live a good Christian life is to be truthful to yourself as you do God’s will,” she says bitterly, “and then they define what is proper in God’s eyes so narrowly that you cannot be truthful after all, without falling into sin. What is the point of that?” Water splashes as she slaps her hand on it palm down. “They say God doesn’t make mistakes, and then he creates people with a truth to them that runs counter to what we’re told is proper in His eyes. What is the point of that?” she asks again, and again her palm smacks the water, hard and loud. “They say God is love and love is of God, and then they say but not this love and not that love and most assuredly not _that_ love either, so what-” and now she accentuates every word with a slap, ever more resounding than the last, “is – the – _point?”_ Her eyes blaze with anger, and then she lets out a roar that shakes the air, and punches the water with both of her fists. 

You are taken aback, shaken out of your contemplation of yourself and into pondering what she has said, what she has gone through. 

“To hell with it,” she mutters again, and now she’s sitting like she did earlier, knees up at her chest and arms around them, ankles crossed in front of her sex. “I know my truths, and I will live them. I know what’s right or wrong, and I will live accordingly. The Lord made me equal to any man and better than plenty, and if asserting that is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.” 

You can see her point, and it frightens you. It seems very close to heresy. 

What frightens you even more is that you find yourself agreeing with her assessment. 

“I’ve seen Christian knights, with the Lord’s names on their lips, slaughter women and children,” you say slowly, and her eyes land on your face, suddenly wide and bottomless. “I’ve seen my brothers in arms,” you grind out those three words, “commit atrocities that defy everything anyone might deem right or proper. I have seen sins that cried out to the very heavens being committed in plain daylight, and not a single act of retribution from above, nor from the worldly lords placed to rule over us.” Your body trembles as those memories wash against your determination not to let them drown you. Your eyes stay with her; her face gives you strength, purpose. “Mother Irene spoke of gradients,” you say slowly. Your thoughts are following a very new path, and you place your metaphorical feet very carefully as you walk it. “And if _those_ men can be forgiven,” you say, barely daring to think this through to its conclusion – but her face gives you strength, gives you purpose, “if the Lord can find mercy for them, surely… surely He… surely He can have mercy on us for loving.”

You hear those words ring in the air even as you fall silent. They shine between the two of you, lingering, echoing, fragile. Your breaths come shallow, ginger – is this…? Could this be-?

“They say that, being human, we can’t help but sin,” she says softly, as if she, too, doesn’t dare to disturb the air. “That we suffer in this life so that we might be exalted in the next. But how much do we have to suffer? Do we need to seek out suffering, just in case? That can’t be right. That can’t be God’s will.” 

You nod wordlessly. It seems to you – and always has – that every minute of every day of your life has been punishment, and you remember Mother Irene’s words, that you are a victim of your father’s sin and not just perpetrator of your own. How much penance is enough, is too much? The abbess told you that you were aware of what is wrong and what is right, almost to the word as what Helena asserted just now, and you realize something in the wake of all of this:

Your love for Helena feels right, not wrong. Love is of God; she said that just now and you know it’s true. Your love for her is part of your truth, just like your love for your people is. Truth endures, and this truth has lived in your heart for more than half of your life. “Trust in the Lord that He will find a way for you to live your whole truth untarnished by lies,” you repeat Mother Irene’s parting words to you. You hold out your hand towards Helena. “I will not seek out suffering. If it finds me, fine. Let it be my penance when it comes. Until then, let live my life in the Lord’s service in all other ways; just let me have you in it. Just please let me have you in my life. If that is wrong,” and now you echo Helena’s words, and marvel at how easy it is, “I don’t want to be right.”

It’s her eyes that swim with tears now; it’s she who hesitates. You can see her fingers clench around the piece of cloth she still holds. 

“Helena,” you whisper. Her eyes flutter close and still she does not move; only her knuckles whiten as she tightens her hold on the embroidery. You remember how she coaxed you, how she soothed you – it’s she who is afraid now, who needs reassurance. “I promise,” you say – not in a whisper anymore, but clear and precise. “Helena, I promise. As a husband promises his wife, as a wife promises her husband, so I promise to-”

“Don’t forget that I have a child,” she interrupts me, and her voice is rough and desperate. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I am not,” you tell her. “I know you have a daughter, and I know you’ve done unusual things, and I don’t mind. I _want_ to promise you these things. I want to honor and cherish you, as spouses do.” You think she’s holding her breath. “If marriage we cannot openly have,” you go on, “then know that I am bound to you as surely as husband and wife are bound to each other. I cannot say where life will take us from here, but I want you in it.” You are sure of this; the profoundness of it sinks into you like a rock into clear water. This is truth, you do not doubt it. “And I will do what I can to make that come true.”

Still she does not move. Then her eyes open and pin you with their gaze. “Do you love me?” she asks, and you realize you’ve never told her, not in all the years you’ve held the feeling. No wonder she’s holding back.

“Yes,” it rushes out of you. “Yes, I love you. Helena – I love you. I’ve loved you for so long-” and that’s as far as you get before her mouth is upon yours.

You whisper words of love to each other as you kiss, as you hold, as you learn, as you know each other. The wonder you feel as you come undone underneath her carries you away; the wonder you feel as she comes undone underneath you brings you to life. 

You love her; that is your truth, and if it is wrong, you do not care to be right. You know this about yourself now, and it will never leave you again. The realization is heady and bone-deep at the same time. 

You walk out the cave hand in hand – it is still dark outside, still night, even though you feel like a brand new day. She leads and you follow, there is a bed and you sink down on it, she joins you and you sleep, dreamless in her arms.


	7. Chapter 7

You wake with a jolt, looking around yourself. It’s murky, but through some cracks you can see brighter light – it must be day, and you somewhere inside. You blink your eyes to shake the last vestiges of sleep from them, and find yourself in a cave with a wide mouth that has been blocked in by a wattle-and-daub wall with a door and a window in it. Both are closed, and their outlines are the cracks that allow the light in. 

“Hello,” you are greeted, by a child’s voice. 

A child. Helena’s child? Christina? You are wearing a shift but underneath that your breasts are unbound, so you secure one of the bed furs against your chest as you raise yourself on your elbows. “Hello,” you reply, your voice covered in sleep. 

“Mummy says you have to brush my hair,” the child – Christina, it has to be – announces very imperiously. 

You blink. “Alright…?” you say. You can see more of the cave’s inside now that your eyes are getting used to being open – there’s a table with two chairs, one of which is occupied by a feet-dangling Christina, the bed that you’re on, a shelf against the back wall, and in the middle of the room, a curious little contraption that looks like a small table with a drawer but is made of clay. Christina is rolling something back and forth on the table’s surface – conkers maybe? – and you realize it’s that sound that has woken you up. 

The thought is disconcerting – sleeping through all you must have slept through: you somehow acquiring nightclothes, Helena getting up and leaving, Christina’s arrival and her play. 

“Where is your mother?” you ask. 

“Outside,” Christina says, which isn’t really helpful, but you’ll take it for now. Then the child asks, “What’s your name?”

You bite your lip, but there’s no help for it: “Michael,” you say. You do not dare to give your real name to a child, not even Helena’s. 

Her face breaks into a smile. “Like the angel!” she says excitedly. “Mummy made me a Michael, look,” she goes on, hopping from the chair and rushing to the shelf. Then she’s headed towards you with two figures in her hands. “Look!” she exclaims again. 

It’s a bit dark to see the figures properly; they’re carved from wood and stained in different colors, you can see that much. And one has wings and the other doesn’t. 

“This is George,” Christina says, “and this is Michael. You have to be very careful with Michael; don’t break off his wings.”

You nod very solemnly, trying not to speculate about Helena making dolls for her daughter that, in a manner of speaking, represent you and Helena herself. You can’t help but wonder what Helena sees or thinks when she watches Christina play with them. And then you shake your wonderings thoughts out of your head. “Do you think we could open the window a little?” you ask. “I’d like to see them better. And if I’m to brush your hair, I’m going to need some light too.”

“Alright,” the child shrugs, settling on the bed with her two figurines, leaving you to figure out how to work the window’s latch and prop the shutters open. When you do, the light falls squarely on the bed. It is bright indeed; a few hours past sunrise if you’re any judge. 

You slept half the morning away. 

You shake your head and wrap yourself in one of the blankets off the bed; the window isn’t paned, and the air outside is cold. Sounds are coming in, too; the quiet pottering about of people, in the distance, going about their business without hurry or worry. “Are you warm enough?” you ask the child, and she nods without looking up from where she’s telling herself a story featuring her two figures. “May I ask your name?” 

“Christina,” she confirms absentmindedly. 

“Christina, where is your comb or brush?” 

She grumbles a little, impatient to be torn away from her play, and points over towards the shelf. Now that you have more light, you can indeed see grooming implements, and you go to pick up both a comb and a brush and sit back down behind Christina, tucking your bare feet into the blanket you’re wrapped in. You can see a few snags and knots; her hair is less straight than her mother’s, but not as curly as yours. You set to work with careful fingers, unwilling to tug too hard and cause the girl pain. With half an ear, you listen to her inventing dialogue between George and Michael, along the lines of how unfair it is that one of them has two wings and the other has none. 

“If you had two wings,” she asks you suddenly, turning under your hands to look at you, “and your friend had none, wouldn’t you give him one?”

You blink. “But if we both had only one wing, we couldn’t fly,” you try to argue.

She huffs, but then her face brightens again. “I bet if you hugged him very tightly, you could fly together still. Like a three-leg race.”

“Wings are attached, though,” you point out. “You can’t really take one off and give it away, can you?”

“You can if you’re an angel,” she replies, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’ve broken off one of Michael’s wings before, look.” She holds up the wooden angel, and you can see a blob of pine tar where the wing grows out of the shoulder. “Mummy glued it back on; I bet she can glue it to George instead.” Her fingers flex around the figure and you quickly reach out and still them.

“Perhaps wait with that until you can ask her,” you suggest. 

The girl exhales in aggravation, but her fingers loosen. “Alright,” she says, and lets herself be turned around to sit in front of you again. Your comb, patient though it is, hits a snag, and she gives a little yelp. “I bet angels don’t have to comb their hair,” she says darkly, kicking out her feet. 

“Probably not,” you find yourself agreeing. Your own hair has been known to defy combs; you don’t let Claud brush it anymore because he always feels so bad about hurting you. It’s oddly comforting to comb someone else’s hair, though.

“Then maybe when I meet an angel I can ask them if I can have hair like them,” Christina says with a sigh that seems far too large to have come from such a tiny body. Then she turns her head to eyeball you. “Your hair is so curly, though.”

You are a bit lost at what seems like a non-sequitur until her meaning becomes clear. Then, with an embarrassed smile, you tell her, “I’m not an angel, Christina. I’m simply named for one. I’m human just like you and your mother.”

“Oh,” she says. “Hm. I have been wondering where your wings are.” You switch from comb to brush, now that all the snags are out, and she leans into your hands. “It doesn’t hurt so much when you do it,” she says. “Can you do it always from now on?”

You swallow. In your mind’s eye, you can see this girl sitting in front of you in your chamber in the keep, the chamber you now share with her mother, light falling on the bed at a different angle but for the same purpose. The vision is so clear that you startle when you raise your eyes and find yourself in a cave instead. You sigh to yourself, but to Christina, you say, “We must ask your mother about this.”

Again, the child grumbles; her small shoulders wiggle with frustration. Then she huffs, “I’m hungry,” and you find you agree with that, too. 

“I’m almost done,” you tell her. “Just a few more moments, and then we can go find some food.” And Helena too, you add in your mind. It’s… odd that she’s not there, isn’t it? It’s not as if you have a lot of experience interacting with small children, and she practically shoved the two of you together, leaving you to watch over her daughter (or her over you, really, seeing as you were sleeping) as if that’s normal. 

“Can I have ribbons?” Christina asks when you declare the task finished. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Does your mother usually put ribbons in your hair?” Christina seems a bit young for ribbons, but you’ve been away for so long; maybe fashions have changed. Or maybe Helena treats Christina just a bit differently; _that,_ now, wouldn’t surprise you at all. 

“Yes,” Christina nods, but overshoots in her wide-eyed earnestness. You’re pretty sure she’s not telling the truth. 

And then you think about gradients, and about how well you slept, and you look at the bright sunshine streaming in through the window, and you decide – to hell with it. If the child wants ribbons, you’ll do your best to put ribbons in her hair, even if you have very little idea how. 

The light from the window dims a little when you’re almost done with the first braid – it’s slow going; you are painstakingly finding your way through this. When you finish tying a knot into the ribbon, you look up and there is Helena, standing outside the window with the most wistful little smile on her face. 

“Mummy!” Christina has seen her, too. “Michael is putting ribbons in my hair!” She jumps up and runs to push the door open. 

“So I see,” Helena says calmly, stepping inside. “Careful,” she says, holding the container she’s carrying high above her head. “I’ve brought new coals. Why don’t you go sit back down so that Michael can finish what you two started, hm?”

Christina settles in front of you again but you’re busy watching Helena walk up to the little clay table. She detaches its top plate by plopping a finger through a central hole and lifting, then she empties the container into the clay bowl thus revealed – the coals she’s brought are red-hot, and you think you can feel their warmth from where you sit. It’s an oven, you realize, not a table – the flat top might be used to cook, even. It’s quite ingenious. Helena replaces the cover gingerly, blowing on her finger when she’s done. You shake your head; you can see even from on the bed that there’s an iron poker leaning against the wall that she could have used for the purpose. 

“Not one word,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling even while she admonishes you. 

You could get used to this – but you’re not part of a family of three living in a cave; you’re the lord of the manor and they will be worried by now. The realization jolts you out of any warm fuzziness you might have felt.

Helena sees the change of expression on your face; her expression grows resigned. “I’ve sent word,” she says quietly. At the same time, though, Christina nudges you and directs you, with a bossiness that is very, very familiar, to finish doing her hair. Helena smiles at the two of you and mouths, “Later.”

When you’re done with Christina’s second braid, she hops off the bed and takes up station before her mother, who has settled at the table. “We’re hungry, Mummy.”

“Are you now?” Helena asks with raised eyebrows. “Well then why did I bring coals, hm, if we’re all leaving?”

“I don’t know?” Christina replies with a shrug. Then she turns to you and points. “So that Michael doesn’t get cold when he gets dressed!” she exclaims. “He’s just got his nightshirt on underneath.”

“What,” Helena says in astonishment, “you’re telling me this isn’t the newest courtly fashion?”

Christina giggles. “Nooooo,” she says, throwing herself across Helena’s legs and kicking up her feet. “It’s just the scratchy blanket, silly!”

“Why indeed it is!” Helena feigns more surprise, and Christina laughs and laughs. It is a sweet sound that makes you smile. Helena’s eyes fall on you and soften at your expression; she leans down and lifts her daughter onto her two feet with practiced hands. “Christina, love, will you run along to Jane and tell her to make food for the three of us? We’ll be right along, alright?”

Christina nods and flies towards the rack of coats and boots next to the door. A few hooks hang low enough for her to reach, and she takes a cloak from them and wraps herself in it. She wobbles slightly as she slips into her boots, and you can see Helena carefully holding back from helping. Then the door bangs open and the girl is gone.

“Close the-!” Helena begins, and then sighs and gets up to shut the door. “Apologies,” she says. “My daughter has yet to learn a few lessons.”

You shake your head in dismissal. “We had a very enjoyable morning,” you say. “I hadn’t realized that combing and brushing someone’s hair was so relaxing.”

Helena’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Relaxing?!” When you nod, she shakes her head. “Well. In that case, you’re welcome to do it again any time you like.”

You bite your lip; you feel both like smiling and like crying. “She asked if I could,” you admit, in barely more than a whisper. 

You want again. 

And when you see your want mirrored on Helena’s face, you rush up to wrap your arms around her- and stop at the last moment. You’re not sure the gesture would be welcome, now that daylight and outside sounds and coals and people called Jane are intruding on the two of you. 

“Come here, silly,” Helena calls softly, holding out her arms, and you close the last step. Her arms curl around your shoulders and yours around her waist; you’ve left the blanket behind but the coal oven is radiating warmth and so is Helena in your arms. 

“Are we both silly then?” you ask.

You can feel her nod against your shoulder. “Most definitely.”

“Then perhaps we are well-suited for each other after all.”

At that she pulls away and catches your face in both her hands. “Most definitely,” she repeats, and kisses you. 

Tempting as her body is in your arms, the growling of your stomach is louder. Besides, Christina is waiting. All of your things are wet still, so Helena offers up her own – right down to bindings for your chest, and you realize she isn’t wearing any. “I only bind when I plan to leave the camp,” she tells you. 

You bow your head to hide the flash of instant, hot envy that shoots through you. Thou shalt not, you remind yourself; envy is a sin, and pointless besides. You clear your throat and nod, looking back up at her with eyes you hope are clear of misgivings. 

Her smile is understanding, and she kisses your cheek before she helps you bind. Halfway through she stops your hands, reaches into her tunic, takes out a piece of cloth and kisses that, too, before placing it squarely over your heart and wrapping the bandage across it. “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed it for the morning,” she says, and you feel like smiling and like crying again. 

“Not at all,” you say. You want her to have something that can hold the same meaning for her as her favor does for you, you realize. But you also realize that you have nothing to give her for that purpose. 

“There,” she says before you can say anything in the matter. She ties up the last knot, takes a step back and tilts her head. “Looks good,” she says, “but how does it feel?”

You aren’t sure how to answer that. “Same as always,” you sigh eventually. It’s not quite true; yes, having your chest bound is reassuring by simple virtue of how familiar it is, but you also feel like you’ve never resented the bloody thing more in your life. 

She nods but doesn’t say anything, and you’re glad of it. You’d hate for her to offer pointless platitudes. Instead, she throws you a linen shirt. It’s a little tight in the shoulders and you both notice. She grins. “Don’t pick fights,” she says, “or you’ll tear that, too.” Before you can apologize about her cloak again, she waves your words away. “As you can see,” she points out, tugging at the wool that covers her – you see the embroidery of Saint George again, and it makes you feel oddly proud, almost as if you had something to do with it – “I have more than the one,” she says. “More than two, even, so you’ll be warm while we head down to the kitchen.”

It’s only when you step out of her door that you realize that ‘down’ is meant quite literally. You gasp as you take in the camp. You’ve never seen such a thing. 

You’re standing on a walkway halfway up one side of a gorge that is easily fifteen yards deep. It’s wide enough and Helena’s cave high enough that the winter sun reaches it; there are more caves below you that are in shadow. The opposite wall is riddled with caves as well; ropes crisscross the gorge, some for swinging on, some with laundry strung to them, some with counterweights to take a person up or down the wall. A small brook runs down the middle, mostly covered in wooden boards. It joins the river about twenty yards to the left; a millwheel – a veritable millwheel! – dips into the river at the corner thus created. From it springs a shaft that disappears into a cave at the foot of the wall opposite you; from that cave you can hear rhythmic hammering. 

Stunned, you turn to Helena. “You have a water-powered hammer.”

She smirks. “We have a few water-powered contraptions, your lordship. I can give you a tour after our meal.”

On cue, your stomach growls again, and she laughs, silver and carefree. As she leads you down the walkway, she points and explains, and people wave and smile – she truly is at home here, and you remember she’s lived in this place for years. 

The food is served right next door to the smithy; not by a Jane but by a William Wolcott, who explains that Jane is away to barter. ‘Wooly’ serves you venison stew and bread so fresh it steams when he cuts it. He asks your name and Helena inhales a bit more sharply than you think the question warrants. 

“Michael,” you tell her, like you told Christina. 

Unlike Christina’s, though, Wooly’s eyes grow wide in realization and alarm. “What the hell?” he asks Helena in a furious whisper. “What is he doing here?”

“Visiting,” you tell him. “Just visiting. I promise.”

“All charges have been dropped, remember?” Helena adds. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s safe for him to bloody well waltz right into-” Wooly snaps his mouth shut and gives Christina a sugary smile. “Nice ribbons,” he says, shooting one last glare at Helena.

“Thank you,” Christina beams. “Michael tied them.”

“Did he,” Wooly sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he tells Helena, then gets up from the table and tends to the large oven in the center of the kitchen cave. 

Helena clears her throat. “This is where I fetched the coal from,” she informs you, obviously intent to change the topic. “We have a few hearths that have fire within them throughout the night; nobody gets cold here, not even in the worst of winter.” She sounds proud, and rightly so.

“You said you sent word?” you ask, feeling as if the coals she’s been talking about are underneath your seat – you need to know.

“Oh! Yes. To the Donovans,” she says. Your eyebrows rise, and she elaborates, “Claire and Arnold are friends. Josh is in MacPherson’s employ to spy for us. He made friends with one of the castle guardsmen too, to feed us information on cart schedules and security measures.”

You hum, pondering the question of whether or not you want to know the name of that person. Helena is already going on, though. 

“Claire told me that Claud followed you yesterday-”

“He did what?” you exclaim.

“-and was smart enough not to go into the fog by himself,” Helena adds with a pointed look. “He went to his sister’s, she sent a pigeon here early this morning, I sent one back explaining that you’re here, alive and well.”

“Pigeons.” What do they _not_ have, here in the dells?!

Helena gives you a little smirk. “Pigeons,” she nods. “Really, Michael, this camp has been established for six years now; shall I show you?” 

And show you she does. The kitchen you’ve seen; the pantry shelves are full to bursting, and the firewood stack is huge – and still being added to. The smithy is next, and a demonstration of how the millwheel’s shaft can be connected to either the big sledgehammer or the largest bellows you have ever seen, sitting next to the largest smelting oven you have ever seen. The smith, Adwin Kosan, a man of Levantine descent by the looks of him, stands proudly next to it. 

“As-salamu alayka,” you greet him, and he does a double take. Then he beams.

“Wa-alayka salamu,” he replies, and for a moment, the male form he’s addressing you in seems wrong. “You speak Arabic?” he goes on, and you hope he hasn’t noticed your stumble. 

“I do,” you say tersely, unwilling to reveal just how that came about. 

“Adwin is a master smith,” Helena says, covering your reticence, and again the man beams. “We are lucky he found his way to us.”

“I am lucky to be able to ply my craft,” he says, giving her a bow fit for royalty. 

Your gaze falls to a rack of weapons and tools at the far wall of the cave and you gasp, striding towards it. “You make watered steel?” No wonder Arthur had heard tell of a magic weapon; blades of this steel can indeed cut through many things, our English iron included. 

Adwin sighs. “Not quite the same,” he says. “The ore we find here doesn’t smelt into the right kind of iron no matter what I do. But I try.”

“And you come close,” Helena tells him. To you, she says, “And his swords are beyond compare regardless.”

“May I?” you ask. Your fingers are itching, and you can’t keep a smile from blooming on your face when he nods. You pick up the nearest sword and find it a tad too long; the next has a handle that doesn’t sit well in your palm, but the third and last – your smile widens.

You walk out of the smithy to have some space, and find yourself in the sunshine between the river and the gorge wall. You shed Helena’s coat and toss it to her; she rolls her eyes, visibly biting back a comment on not being a servant, and you laugh. And then you enjoy the blade you’ve been allowed to wield, practicing your moves until the shoulder seam of the shirt you’re wearing bursts underneath your tunic. 

You freeze and cast a guilty look at Helena, wondering if she has heard the tell-tale creak. Her expression is breathless rather than disapproving, though, and you blink in surprise. It’s only then you realize you’ve drawn a crowd, and that Helena isn’t the only one casting you admiring looks. 

“Your, ah, technique has changed a bit,” she says when she notices your eyes on her. She sounds breathless too. 

You shrug even as you blush; this, too, you don’t really want to explain. It’s one thing to learn fighting from a marshal or knight instructor – another to actually stand in battle and fight for your life. 

“Care to spar with me?” she challenges, taking two wooden practice swords from another rack. “I bet I can still disarm you.”

You grit your teeth, but practice swords should be alright. You just need to stay present and not lose yourself into the fight. You hand the actual sword back to the smith with both hands and a grateful nod, and take the wooden blade that Helena offers you. 

The two of you have at least a dozen onlookers now, if not more. 

You shift your shoulders; the torn seam is chafing a bit under your tunic, but it’s a discomfort you can live with. And then she comes at you, eyes alight with intention and sword at the ready, and you spar. 

Her technique has changed, too – she has fighting experience now, you can tell, if not as much as you. The thing is: you have experience in two combat styles by now – the one her father taught you, and the one you learned in the village of women in the Palestinian mountains. 

You have that on her, as well as muscle and a slightly longer reach; she is lighter and nimbler. You’re both sparring, both sticking to ‘the rules’, such as they are; you haven’t, for example, taken up a fistful of leaves to throw in her face and hide your attack. 

She unleashes a flurry of blows on you, and you parry every one. Then you advance on her, and in her retreat, her foot catches on a root on the ground. She quickly catches herself, but she’s left an opening and you take advantage of it. Your sword engages hers and you twist your wrist; her sword flies through the air. You take a step back now that you’ve disarmed her, but she doesn’t – she, now, is flying through the air above you, tapping you between your shoulder blades before she lands. Her people laugh and cheer.

You whirl to her, eyes blazing and shoulders hunched. “What on Earth was that about?!”

She shrugs. “Just showing your lordship that disarming your opponent doesn’t end the fight. Could’ve sunk a knife right there and then.”

You suck in a breath to berate her and then you see Christina’s face among the crowd, glowing with delight about her mother’s ‘win’. You bite back every single word that’s searing your tongue, and you bow to her, acknowledging your ‘defeat’. Then you turn and walk away. 

People take notice of you now; you don’t know if it was Wooly or the mock fight, but people know that the lord of the manor is in the camp. You head downstream to get away from their gazes; you can’t see any caves or lean-tos there, so you hope for solitude. There’s a rope bridge crossing the river and you take it; there’s another tributary gorge soon after and you head up it. You pass by an outhouse and through an orchard and wonder yet again at how organized all this is. Then you find a rock that the sun is falling on and you settle on it, hoping that sunshine in your face will chase away the darkness in your thoughts. 

You sit there long enough for the sun to pass beyond your spot; as you start to shiver you see her walking the same path you took. When she reaches you, she holds out the cloak you gave her. Accepting it from her hands is harder than it should be. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, after a few moments of silence. 

You fear you might split a tooth, one of these days, from how hard you grind them. It takes you more than a few moments to find enough coherent words to formulate a reply. “I could have killed you any time.”

“I beg to-”

You take her arm, hard, startling her into silence; you can’t help it – her flippancy turns your stomach. “I could have killed you every single moment,” you repeat, slowly, pressing each word forth from between your clenched jaws. “Had I lost my focus. We were sparring, not fighting.” You let go of her and turn away, disgusted with yourself. “When I fight, I kill,” you say. “I can’t fight any other way anymore.”

She is silent, and you hope she’s hearing what you’re saying. 

“When you touched me-” you begin, and you can’t finish the thought. Not even just the thought. “When I fight, _fight_ not spar, I don’t see faces. I don’t see people. I see shapes and moves. I see precisely what I need to do, and I do it. And later they tell me I killed eight men, or thirteen, or twenty-two.”

She takes in a breath and you wonder if she understands yet. 

“I was fighting to not fight you,” you say quietly. “And you-” You have to break off again; nausea tightens your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t. I swear. I promise. Myka, I swear.”

You wrench your jaws apart to suck in a breath. You may have lost count of how many people you have killed, but you know that if her stunt had gone wrong, if you had lost control over yourself in that one godawful instance of fight response to her touching your back, none of your previous killings would have mattered. You turn to look at her and she swallows harshly at what she sees in your eyes. 

“I won’t,” she repeats. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I’m sorry, Myka, I’m so sorry.” She is crying; your eyes are dry. She wraps her arms around you; yours hang limply at your side. “Let’s go home,” she says; you get up and follow her. 

You would follow her anywhere.


	8. Chapter 8

Christina is with Wooly, Helena explains while you two make your way back to her place. She also tells you that Jane has news from the castle, and confirms that yes indeed, this is Jane Lattimer she is talking about: Pete’s mother, living among the brigands since her son was presumed dead. Jane reports that Pete and Claud have come up with the story that Lord Bering has taken the day off to go hunting, giving you the opportunity to stay with Helena for the rest of the day, or even until mass tomorrow – it appears that Pete, Claud and even Steve have taken two tents and some provisions and set up a little camp of their own in a different part of the Dells to uphold the illusion. 

You’re not happy that they’re lying for you, but you can’t deny how grateful you are that you don’t have to return quite yet, especially not when you still feel so shaken up over what happened when you sparred with Helena. 

You’re shaking. You sit next to Helena’s small clay oven, still wearing her coat with the embroidered George on it, and you’re shaking. The oven is radiating heat and your hands and feet are cold as ice. Your face feels frozen, too, numb and unresponsive; your eyes don’t see anything beyond the rushes on the earthen floor.

Something enters your line of sight – a hairbrush. You blink, and follow the line of brush handle, hand, arm, right up to her face. “Relaxing?” she asks, with a smile that hovers halfway between hopeful and nervous. 

You take the brush from her and she gracefully sinks down in front of you, settling on the floor with her legs crossed, showing you her back and, when she tugs off her chaperon, her neck too. It’s an utterly vulnerable position; you could kill her easily before she even knew it, but there’s no weapon in your hand, only a brush, only a brush. 

Your hand – the empty one, the one not holding the brush; the one with the knife wound that still tugs and aches – trembles as you run it over her hair; the outside cold lingers in the strands despite the heat coming from the oven next to you. You run the brush along the same path your hand just took. It feels odd; it’s one thing to do this for a child who might not have the coordination yet to do it herself, but quite another to minister to a grown woman – one who’s wearing her hair like a man, what’s more. 

You give up trying to understand why you’re doing this, and focus on not poking the brush’s bristles into her temple or forehead. Alternating with your brushstrokes you run your hand over her hair; it is so incredibly smooth compared to yours. You can’t stop yourself and it seems she doesn’t want you to; her shoulders are soft and flush between your knees and her head lolls backwards with every stroke. 

And then she begins to talk. 

“I was devastated when Mother and Father died,” she says. You don’t answer because you have no idea what you would even say, but she isn’t waiting for a reply; she just goes on. “Then your father was carried off too and the sheriff picked MacPherson as steward, and I knew I had to snap out of my grief, because he immediately had his unsavory eyes on me. For a while, it seemed as if he wanted to try to cement his position by marrying Tracy, but then she fell ill as well, and when she died, I was back in his sights. He and the sheriff kept looking at me during the ceremony to install him and the subsequent mass; it turned my stomach. 

“For the first time in my life, I was scared of what the rest of my life might look like,” she says quietly. Part of you wants to scoff, but her hair is so smooth under your fingers and her voice so small. You think back to the Helena you left, the imperious young woman so used to getting what she wanted even if it skirted the borders of propriety or ran laughing past them at times. You try to envision her being faced with being married off against her will, to a man you haven’t met but cannot find a good word for. 

You wonder how long it would have taken her to slip a knife between his ribs at night. That thought is easier to think than any thoughts of a faceless man standing in front of her bed. 

She hisses softly and you realize you’re tugging at her hair in your anger. You mumble an apology, and in reply, she simply catches your hand in hers, turns her head and kisses your palm. 

“As I said the other day,” she goes on, “I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I myself had had the fever and was weakened; I hadn’t been able to stomach food well, much less wine, and those looks they kept casting my way…”

“I understand,” you say. You don’t exactly want to hear her justify herself; it grates on you that you weren’t there to stand by her side. 

“He looked like you,” she says suddenly, bringing you up short. 

“MacPherson?” you ask, thoroughly stunned.

“No,” she replies quickly; the tips of her ears are red and so is the back of her neck – she’s blushing. “No. He. Um. The man who… Christina’s father. One of the sheriff’s retainers. His hair was curly like yours and cut the same way, and he, too, was slender and tall.” She hangs her head and you feel conflicted; you don’t really want to hear this either, and you wonder why she’s telling you all this. “I missed you so,” she whispers, and turns and buries her face in your knee. Her arms wind themselves around your calf; your fingers keep up their motions – brushstroke, hand stroke, slow and methodical. “So unspeakably much,” she tells your knee. 

You missed her too – or rather, you missed being with her. There is no way you would have wanted her where you were. You clear your throat. “I wish I’d been here,” you tell her. You realize that there are tears soaking into your hose; she’s crying, face still pressed against your knee. Unsure how best to console her, you keep stroking her hair, feeling clumsy and oafish in your ignorance. 

She shifts and sits up a little straighter, resting her cheek on your thigh now. “I know,” she says quietly. “But… Myka, why didn’t you write?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” you admit helplessly. “We were forbidden to speak of military matters, and besides those-” you break off. “I am not a poet. I don’t know how to describe the sea, or the islands, or the desert, or the mountains. Charles was much better at that than I.”

“He always would add that you were well,” she says with a small laugh. “That you were sending your greetings.”

You swallow. You had not known that. “Oh.”

She chuckles again and pats your calf as she sits up and tilts her head to the other side, inviting you to brush that half of her hair now. You oblige. 

A few minutes pass in silence, then you say, “If I had written to you, it would have been either three words or three thousand.” Either too little, because what else could you have said beyond ‘I miss you’, or too much, in trying to adequately describe just how much you missed her indeed, and why missing her didn’t mean wishing for her to be at your side but rather wishing for yourself to be at hers, and feeling guilty about that because you were on this crusade for a purpose, and-

“I understand,” she says, and her hand curls around your calf in a strangely reassuring gesture. 

Again the two of you sit in silence, broken only by the soft sound of bristles and palm against her hair, and coals crackling in the little oven.

“What happened then?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“When you came here.”

She hums and settles more snugly against your leg. “I should resume my story a bit before that,” she announces. “When I discovered that I had quickened, I panicked. Thank goodness your mother was there; she was the calm in my storm. It was she who suggested the pilgrimage, she who told me that a solution like that wasn’t all that extraordinary, she who encouraged me to trust Father Caturanga. It was the Father who knew that there were people already camping out here in the Dells, and that they might be willing to take me in for the duration. That is how I came here. And it was good that I did, because my pregnancy took a turn for the worse a few days later; I couldn’t keep down food, could barely keep down water, and it was coming up winter. Wooly saved my life – I cannot fault him for being protective of me as well as of this place,” she says even as your blood runs cold at hearing her recount this so dispassionately. “And then he saved Christina’s life, too. My body was too haggard to produce milk, and somehow, overnight, William Wolcott went and procured a nanny goat. I couldn’t even stay awake; he fed my baby night and day. If it weren’t for him, neither of us would have survived, I’m sure of it.”

You nod, not at all sure that your voice would obey you were you to say anything now. The thought that you almost lost Helena – first, you thought her lost on her pretend pilgrimage, now you realize that but for the care of others you would have lost her for real.

Your grip around the brush’s handle is so tight your knuckles are white, and you carefully set it down on the table and knit your fingers together. You cannot risk touching her hair, not when you’re this tense. Better to strangle your own hands instead. 

At your movement she turns; upon seeing your expression, she rises on her knees to wrap you in her arms. “It’s alright,” she whispers. “I made it, Christina made it; it’s alright.” Her breath tickles the skin of your neck and you shudder. You wish you could return her embrace, but you don’t dare to move a muscle for fear of crushing her. And then her arms tighten and threaten to crush _your_ shoulder, and you realize two more things: one, she is no longer a frail waif unable to keep food down or give her baby milk, and two, she almost lost you too, but for the care of others. 

“I made it, too,” you say, and _then_ you loosen your grip on your hands, _then_ you run your arms around her. 

“You came back to me.” Her whisper is hitched and accompanied by her body shifting forwards until you’re both pressed against each other. Her hands ball into fists in the fabric of your tunic; yours curl themselves around her shoulders. 

Not a waif at all anymore. Her shoulders might be slightly slimmer than yours as evidenced by the torn shirt you’re still wearing, but they aren’t slighter by much, and you can feel her muscles under your palms and along your arms. Neither of you fit the ideals of womanly beauty, and yet – you remember every detail of her body, and you find her breathtaking. And by the compliments she whispered in your ear yesterday night, she is as enamored by your body, incredible though you find the idea. 

You are well-suited to each other. You love her and she returns the feeling; she does not mind what you have done and neither do you worry about her deeds. You both want each other in your life. 

_Trust in the Lord that He will find a way for you to live your whole truth untarnished by lies._

You want that. You want to breathe free and fully; you want to be called by your name, acknowledged for who you are – no man, but a capable leader still. And you want her, her, her. You want your every day to start and begin with her. You want to brush her daughter’s hair and compare it to hers and yours as you all cuddle together on the bed in your chamber. You want to be proud of her and laugh at her antics and bask in her praise just like you did when you were children, and then after that, like the adults you are, you want to retire to bed and tease gasps from her the likes of which you’ve never heard before.

And as she holds you in her arms now, your flight of fancy never falters, never fails, never bows to reality’s inevitability. As you go after those gasps now, you feel wedded to her as surely as any husband is to his wife, you rejoice in the way you become one flesh moving in unison, anointing the night with plentiful balms, praising the love above with every utterance that falls from both your lips. 

You fall asleep entangled in one another, and wake up because your leg, dangling from underneath the blankets and furs, is cold in the night air. There’s nothing in the clay oven but ashes long cold, and you swiftly wrap yourself in a night shirt and cloak, put on your boots and grab the coal holder, and make your way down to the kitchen and its big oven. 

You have no idea how late or early it might be; the moon is hidden behind clouds that drizzle softly. But you find Jane Lattimer sitting up close by the hearth’s warmth. She looks up and smiles when she sees you, and you shyly smile back, remembering the times when she’d visit her son the stablehand in the castle. 

“Come for coal?” she asks and you nod and wordlessly lift the container. “Sit for a moment,” she says, though, patting the bench next to her. 

You sink down. 

“Thanks for bringing my son back to me,” she says, and you remember that her husband died in France when your father took him along in the king’s service. 

You lower your head. You cannot accept her gratitude, not when-

“You’re thinking about Sir Charles, aren’t you?” she asks quietly. When you nod, she nudges her shoulder into yours. “Five went, four came back. Could’ve been three, or two, or one, or none just as easily. Don’t berate yourself.”

“I’d promised to keep him safe,” you tell her. 

She nods. “And I am sure you did everything you could to keep that promise.” She shifts, moving away slightly and crossing her arms, and regarding you with piercing eyes. “Let me ask you something,” she says, and you marvel at her boldness. Now you can see where Pete gets it from. At your gesture, she goes on, “Was there a moment when you knew it would happen?”

You clench your teeth and pull your lips into a grimace. No one knows this but Pete, Claud and Steve, and you wonder if Jane’s son has shared this with his mother. 

“Well?”

Grudgingly, you nod. “He broke formation,” you whisper. “He was supposed to guard our rear, ensure that we wouldn’t get cut off.”

“As I recall Charles Wells didn’t handle it too well whenever he wasn’t in the thick of things,” Jane says musingly. “Younger brother, always anxious not to be left behind.”

“Yes, he was,” you sigh. “He was.” You sit in silence with her for a few breaths. They come so easy, unbound as you are.

“To be a good leader,” Jane says in a low voice, “it pays to remember that the people under your command are people. With their own free will. Who sometimes do things you rather they didn’t. Who sometimes make mistakes. Who sometimes pay dearly for them.” She sighs, now. “And there’s nothing much you can do about it. Because the only alternative would be mindless automatons that follow your orders like cattle and never do anything you haven’t precisely instructed them to.” She releases her arms and puts her hands on her knees, pushing herself into standing. “A good thing to keep in mind,” she says. “Your lordship,” she adds as if in afterthought, before she grabs a long-handled shovel.

It is the work of barely a minute to get your container filled. Its handle is ingeniously protected; your hand feels warm, but nowhere near burning, even though it’s barely three inches away from the glowing coals. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jane says simply as you turn to leave. You linger under the overhang, loath to step into the rain. “He was his own man,” she goes on, “he made his choice, he paid his price. You do not have to pay double. I know you have a hard time seeing it that way; Pete does too, and that is to both your credit. Still, remember: it wasn’t your fault.” 

You nod at her. You will remember her words; you remember everything, that’s how your brain works. Whether you’ll ever think this way, you don’t know, but you will remember. “Thank you,” you tell her. 

She pats your arm and nods her chin towards the cave you came from. “She knows this,” she says. “And a good thing too, because you couldn’t run this outfit any other way. Though from what I’ve heard, there won’t be a need for it for much longer.” She looks at you with a tilted head. 

“I’m trying to repair what MacPherson did,” you say. “Though I well know that you can’t please everyone.” You do have some leadership experience, after all.

“Isn’t that the truth,” she sighs. “I doubt this settlement will go away anytime soon. Although any tax collector sent here might mysteriously find it empty,” she smirks. 

You snort a soft laugh. “Duly noted.”

As you turn to go, she takes hold of your arm for a moment. “One last piece of advice, if I may be so bold: you deserve happiness. Right here and now, not just in the afterlife. Whether happiness finds you or you find it: when you recognize it, grab it and don’t let go. Lord knows there’s enough misery in the world.”

Your lips twitch in what you sincerely hope is at least the resemblance of a smile, even as your eyes fill. “Your son says the same,” you tell her. 

“He would,” she says proudly. 

You can just about see it – Pete sitting with his mother and telling her that Lord Bering is too harsh on himself; him and her conspiring to get his lordship to loosen up. 

He would. 

Apparently she would too. Made from the same cloth, those two. An idea occurs to you, and you blurt out, “Would you take a position in the castle?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Me? What would I do?”

You bite your lip. Keep me company, is what you’d love to say, after just this little conversation. Remind me to grab happiness. Instead, you shrug. 

“Tell you what,” she says, not unkindly and with a parting pat to your arm. “You think of something and I’ll consider it. Your lordship.”

Always as an afterthought. 

You find yourself liking that. 

It is as you walk back up to Helena’s cave that you realize something that’s been bouncing around the back of your brain ever since you got up: you slept. And you didn’t dream. Not a good dream, not a nightmare, you just slept. You marvel at yourself, and wonder how long this will last. 

She mutters something when you let the hot coals tumble into the small clay oven. When you slip in next to her and your cold feet meet her warm ones, she grumbles. But her arms find you anyway, and keep you safe in sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

A shrill, long whistle pierces the air and wakes you at the crack of dawn. You were under so deeply that you’re utterly disoriented for a moment; now you blink yourself awake. Next to you, Helena is already upright and jumping into her clothes. “Alarm,” she tells you tersely. “Get dressed, find Kosan, tell him I told him to arm you, then find me upstream.” She points up the gorge and you nod; she is gone an instant later, belting on her sword.

You take a moment longer to find your own clothes and boots, finally dry now. You can hear a hubbub of voices when you step out the door, and approve when you realize they’re all purpose and no panic. You see Wooly and Father Caturanga usher not just Christina but several children into the cave that leads to the hot spring; others are securing fires and queuing for weapons. You join that queue and don’t even have to tell the master smith anything; he hands you the sword you tested yesterday. 

“Do you know what’s going on?” you ask as you belt it on.

“Riders in the Dells,” Adwin says curtly. “The signal, the long whistle – that’s what it means. I don’t know more than that yet.”

You nod. “Thank you for this,” you say, resting your hand on the pommel. “It’s an honor.”

“The honor is mine, sir,” he replies, bowing.

You clap your hand on his shoulder briefly, then hasten up the gorge to seek out Helena – George, think of him as George now – and learn what is happening. 

You find Claud, mud-encrusted and breathing hard, ringed with George’s men. “MacPherson,” he gasps as you make your way to him, “and the sheriff. And five dozen men.”

People mutter uneasily. That is more than the entirety of people who live here, counting non-combatants and children. 

“And,” Claud adds with a gulp, “and the Marshal.”

The muttering is louder now; everyone knows William Marshal, best knight that ever lived, and steward of the realm while the Lionheart is in France.

“What is he doing here?” you ask.

“Heard you were back,” Claud said with a quick grin, “guess he wants to meet Sir Michael the Avenger.”

You huff out an annoyed breath. 

“They think George the Brigand and his men captured you, though,” Claud goes on quickly, and your heart drops cold in your chest. “That’s what they’ve been telling their men before they set out. Josh rode ahead when he heard; almost killed his horse to get here before them.”

“Steady, everyone,” George says through the susurrus that breaks out at the news. The group is growing as more and more men appear, outfitted mostly with bows and cudgels. “We trained for this. We have the upper hand here; this is our turf.” He turns to Claud. “Is Josh safe?” 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s in hiding, don’t worry. The whole family is. Pete and Steve have gone back to the castle to alert people there. No, it’s you I’m worried about,” Claud says, his eyes flicking between George and you. 

“I’ll meet them,” you say before George can get a word out. He glares at you, but you ignore it. “Claud, do you have my colors on you?”

“No, sir.” He looks ashamed, and you quickly squeeze his arm.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him. Then you turn to George again. “Do you have a horse?”

He shakes his head. “The Dells aren’t safe for horses; the ground’s too uneven. On the plus side that means that the sheriff’s men won’t be mounted much longer if they know what’s good for them.”

You grind your teeth. No armor, no helmet, a barely familiar sword, no crest, no horse. Fine figure you’re cutting. You inhale sharply and draw yourself up – that’s not what being a knight is about. “Any place where it makes sense to meet them?” you ask the commander of these parts. 

George nods. “Devil’s Bowling Ground,” he says tersely, nodding to his men, half of which disappear into the murk. “Ground is covered in round rocks about this size.” He shapes his hands around eight inches of air. “Treacherous footing, but everyone will be in plain sight and it’s surrounded by trees I’ll have my people in.” Then he points over his shoulders to the men who’ve left. “They’ll herd them there.”

“Sounds good,” you say. “Far enough from here to keep this place out of trouble?”

“Plenty.”

“Let’s go.”

You set out, George in front, then you, then Claud hard on your heels, then a few more of George’s men. 

“Who’s leading the foray?” you ask Claud. “And whose men will we be facing?”

“The men are the sheriff’s,” Claud says, “and the sheriff is in command. The Marshal apparently said he’d just be an onlooker, but frankly I have my doubts. He did bring two of his men-at-arms with him.”

You agree; William the Marshal is not a man to sit in the background unless perhaps he’s testing someone. Which he might be, considering. “What’s MacPherson’s standing with either of them?”

“He’s been spending a lot of money on the sheriff,” Claud says disparagingly. “Lots of brown-nosing too; he definitely has him in his pocket. Josh didn’t get an idea of what Marshal thinks of all of that. He did say that when your name was mentioned, Marshal seemed to have heard of you, in a good way.”

You nod, accepting this fact for the advantage it gives you. You know Claud is exalted at knowing that you’re in good standing with the king and his steward; you just want that to translate into being left to do your job here in Bering. Perhaps this foray is a chance to catch the Marshal’s ear for that. 

“MacPherson loathes you, though,” Claud adds, “and the sheriff’s opinion, consequently, isn’t much higher.”

You sigh. “I see.” Again, you wish you were better equipped – but you are a knight, you are a baron, no matter what you’re wearing or carrying, no matter what else you might be – or might not be.

You haven’t been able to bind your chest very well, all by yourself as you were. Your cloak is wide and loose and hides some, but not all, and if it comes to a fight, you’ll have to take it off anyway. You can’t let anyone get close.

The Devil’s Bowling Ground lives up to its name. It’s a round-ish clearing about a stone’s throw across. A few remnants of morning mist still hang among the grass and rocks on the ground. You stop in between the trees that ring the clearing, hidden by underbrush and the fog that curls taller here. You can hear commotion in the distance, getting closer, and you turn to George. “Let me talk with them first. I’ll try and solve this without bloodshed.” Leaves rustle and branches quiver as George’s men climb into the trees; if this _does_ get bloody, it’ll be a massacre. The thought sits heavy on your heart. 

George nods tightly and turns to one of his men who then withdraws, probably to pass the order on.

There’s a scream of a horse nearby, and it doesn’t help. Claud swears under his breath and you can’t even fault him; neither of you take it well when a horse suffers. 

“Steady,” you tell both him and yourself. 

George clasps your shoulder for a moment. “Dragonslayer,” he salutes you, and today he’s not mocking you with it. 

Claud chuckles. “Haven’t heard him called that one in a while.” Then he goggles in realization and you hiss at him to stay focused; George just smirks while Claud stares at him for a moment longer. Then your squire shakes himself out of his amazement. “Sir Michael the Avenger,” he corrects George diffidently. 

“Excellent,” George gives back. “I had claimed the title of Dragonslayer for myself, I must confess.”

“Welcome to it,” you tell him, and then the first of the sheriff’s men come stumbling into the clearing. 

They’re on foot and looking over their shoulders, and four out of six go down when the Devil’s Bowling rocks roll under their feet. The second wave arrives cautioned and stays upright, then three men in heavy armor appear and you realize you have an advantage – they’re clad for horse fighting, not ground fighting. You’ll be lighter on your feet with your lack of chainmail. 

“If this can’t be solved by talking, I’ll try for trial by combat,” you tell George under your breath. He inhales sharply and glares at you, but you stare him down until, grudgingly, he nods. 

The men are all in the clearing now, gathered together in a tight lump looking around themselves. They are very probably aware that they’re surrounded; you can see the tension in their postures. You take a deep breath and cup your hands around your mouth, turning to your left to talk into the trees and create an echo that’ll obscure your position. “My lord Marshal,” you begin. 

One of the sheriff’s men, startled, shoots his bow twenty paces to your right. The arrow rustles into the gorse bushes. You can only hope no one was in that spot. The sheriff reprimands the fellow with a sharp word.

“My lord sheriff,” you go on; this time none of the men move. “Sir James,” is your last greeting, loaded with cold. “If you have come on news that I have been captured or kidnapped, I assure you you were misled. Here I am.” You step out into the clearing, placing your feet very carefully between the treacherous rocks. 

Instantly, several bows are raised your way; you do your best not to heed them as you make your way forward. “Do excuse my lack of proper attire, please,” you say as lightly as you’re capable of. “I was a bit surprised by your visit. You find me in the middle of a hunting foray.”

William Marshal barks out a laugh. “Hunting the king’s deer, eh?”

“By your leave, my lord Marshal,” you say with fake modesty, “I have returned nary a week ago; I have not had the time to go past the number granted to me by the king’s grace.”

The Marshal laughs again. “The lad certainly speaks courteously enough,” he tells the sheriff, “for all that he’s beardless as a babe.”

“I’m telling you, my lord,” MacPherson hisses, “he’s beardless because he’s not-”

“Oh come now,” Marshal interrupts him, suddenly irritable. “If that’s the man who saved the Lionheart’s life in Limassol, he’s indisputably a man. Your king himself spoke highly of him.” He turns to you and you pray he doesn’t see how you’ve frozen at MacPherson’s words. 

Is your secret known to him?

“Lord Bering,” Marshal says, “what did the king say to you after you thwarted the cowardly attack on his person in the streets of Limassol?”

You swallow. “‘God’s body, my good sir, I nearly lost it.’ It was a very close encounter, and the king’s circumstances were… unconducive to a fight.” He’d had a woman up against the wall and his hose around his ankles, but who are you to tattle – the king had not lost ‘it’ nor his head, and you had gained royal favor that afternoon, in his own words. 

Marshal gives another bark of laughter. “That man,” he says, pointing at you and speaking to MacPherson, “is who he says he is.”

“My lord,” MacPherson protests, but you cut him off.

“Sir James,” you say sharply. “If you continue to doubt my word, I shall have to ask you for satisfaction.”

He scoffs, and then he actually says it out loud: “You can’t challenge me. You’re neither baron nor knight; you’re but a woman.”

You still, eyes locked on him. Then you begin to advance, hand on your sword hilt. The sheriff’s men square up against you, but William Marshal calls them to order. Sir James MacPherson actually gulps when you walk up to him. You stare at his Adam’s apple for long enough to make it very clear that you’ve seen his weakness, then you backhand him across the face. At least he takes that without flinching.

From the corners of your eyes, you see the sheriff looking at the Marshal and the Marshal leaning forward. “Trial by combat,” the best knight that ever lived announces. “Lord Bering, as the slighted party, it will be your choice of time, place and weapon.”

MacPherson looks about to protest and that, you understand – you were the one who slapped him; you are the challenger. But he did slight you, and a quick gesture from the sheriff has him snap his mouth shut. 

“Right here and now, as soon as we’ve cleared some ground,” you say, “swords on foot.” You sketch a bow to MacPherson that borders on insult in its brevity, then salute Marshal with a deliberately more courteous one. You can practically feel MacPherson’s temperature rise; it warms you as you take off your cloak.

“So it shall be,” Marshal says. “Men, clear a circle twenty paces wide of everything that isn’t grass.”

“My lord, what about the brigands?” the sheriff says even as his men start to do the Marshal’s bidding. 

“Let whoever wins the trial deal with them,” Marshal shrugs. Then he peers at MacPherson, who has taken off his cloak but not his chainmail. “Sir Knight,” he says with a dark scowl, emphasizing the man’s rank with obvious intent, “surely you won’t deny your opponent equal footing?”

MacPherson coldly shakes his head. “I don’t believe in giving up advantages, my lord.”

You can see that the Marshal disapproves; you wonder if MacPherson is aware of it.

It doesn’t take long for the circle to be cleared. The men’s trampling is doing nicely to compact the grass; MacPherson, meanwhile, is limbering up by swinging his sword around. You try not to show your amusement; he’s a peacock, a posturer, you think, though you will reserve judgement until you actually engage him. 

“Are you both ready?” the Marshal asks; you nod immediately and after a moment, so does MacPherson. “Very well then. Trial by combat, over the claim that The Right Honorable Michael Lord Bering is not a man but a woman. The first to draw blood wins; the first to cry craven loses. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” both you and MacPherson echo. William Marshal nods and withdraws from the field of honor; you draw your sword and a deep breath. 

Sir James MacPherson and you start by circling each other, sizing each other up. You know you’re smaller than him and your sword is shorter, so he has reach on you; you probably have speed on him and maybe familiarity with the circumstances too – you know how to fight without the protection of chainmail; he doesn’t look too comfortable out of the saddle. He is still himself, a Scotsman who affects an English accent, not a faceless shape, and that’s good: you’re fighting till first blood, not till death. His sword flicks towards you in a first tentative attack; you easily dance out of reach. He tests you again, and again you evade. 

“Stand still,” he grates, and you laugh at him.

“Like a straw target?” you mock; ridicule is part of the game. “Don’t you wish.” Halfway through your words you make your first foray, establishing more clearly how wide his range is and that you are, indeed, faster and nimbler than him. 

A few more encounters, and blade actually rings against blade as you deflect a blow of his. It’s not a strong one; either he hasn’t put all of his force behind it or he’s gone soft. You take note of how your sword blade shaves curls of metal off of his. He starts pressing you then, or tries to; you weave out of his reach every time, and manage to get in a few stabs even though none of them lands yet. You duck under his last blow and aim at his midriff; he barely jumps back in time. 

He _is_ slow. 

You start circling him more closely now, alternating feints and actual blows in an attempt to make him dizzy, make him lose his footing, or just plain break through his defense. He parries and parries, but your attempts come closer to hitting the mark each time. 

And then he lunges wildly, a move born of desperation far more than skill, and your own foot catches in a rabbit hole or some other deformation of the ground. You barely manage to twist your torso away in time; his sword sings through the air right in front of you and suddenly you feel cold. 

“There you are, my lord,” MacPherson calls out. “Proof.”

He’s sliced open your tunic and the shirt underneath it – and your bandages halfway. For a moment, the whole clearing seems to hold its breath. 

Without taking your eyes off him, you bring your left hand up to your chest. You run your finger along the length of where he’s cut, then hold it up to your eyes. “No blood,” you announce.

“We’re bloody well looking at your tits, woman,” MacPherson sneers. 

“No blood,” you repeat. You set your shoulders; the tunic gaping open ten inches across your chest is hindering your movements. You tug at it as you address the Marshal. “By your leave, my lord, may I divest myself of this?” 

“You may,” he says gravely. “Sir James, you will hold back until your opponent picks up his blade again, or you forfeit this fight.”

You pull the tunic over your head, then the shirt. A gasp runs through the watchers as your bindings come into full view. You grit your teeth; you heard the male pronoun the Marshal used, loud and clear. Unless and until you lose this fight, you’re a man – that was his message, to you and anyone around. You do your best to refasten what’s left of your bandages and in the process discover that MacPherson’s thrust has cut Helena’s embroidery in half. 

Your ears start ringing; Sir James MacPherson becomes a stack of shapes: triangles, rectangles, squares, circles. You no longer feel the air’s cold on your skin; time slows down, or perhaps your mind speeds up. You pick up your sword from the ground and heft it, and then you advance, drawing upon all you’ve learned about your opponent in the last minutes, drawing upon everything Helena’s father has taught you, drawing upon everything you learned in the Levant. 

At the end of it, a sword lies on the ground a few feet away and the tip of your own blade rests against MacPherson’s throat where his chainmail opens to show his face. You take a deep breath as you come to your senses; then, with a steadfast, almost loving hand, you nick the skin atop MacPherson’s Adam’s apple. 

“The Right Honorable Michael Lord Bering wins,” the Marshal proclaims.

Even though your sword is still close to MacPherson’s throat, his eyes brim with contempt. You are slow to withdraw; somehow you get the feeling that this isn’t over yet. And then, when you’ve moved back a foot or two, his gaze flickers to the sheriff and he nods, and the sheriff shouts, “Now!”, and all of a sudden everything is mayhem.


	10. Chapter 10

The sheriff’s men are drawing their bows, turning their arrows on William Marshal and his bodyguards, and then they fall, dropped by arrows from the trees even as the Marshal’s bodyguards lift their shields to protect their lord. You’re defending yourself against MacPherson once more, then an arrow sprouts from his eye and he falls where he stands. One of his men crouches, points, and draws his knife, but the focus of his eyes is ever so slightly off to your side; you risk a quick look behind and see the Marshal bending over one of his men-at-arms who’s dead on the ground. When you look back at the attacker, his knife is in the air, and you just manage to bring your sword up in time to knock it off-target. It sinks into the dead bodyguard’s shield and you advance on the would-be murderer; he turns and runs and gets about five yards before an arrow fells him too.

And then there is quiet. 

You were right; this has turned bloody, and it has turned into a massacre. 

You are alive, and so is William Marshal and one of his men-at-arms. Everyone else in the Devil’s Bowling Ground is dead, or as good as.

Your right side hurts, you suddenly realize. When you look down at yourself you see a long, shallow cut along one of your ribs and remember that something brushed past you when you batted the knife out of the air. An arrow must have grazed you at just the right angle to only draw blood but not hurt you further; you take a breath of relief and your bandages finally give in to the strain that your lungs put on them. It is oddly freeing, cold though you are.

William Marshal holds out your shirt, nodding his chin at the gash in your side. “Need help wrapping that?”

Your head is too full of thoughts to utter any single one, so you just shake it and grab the garment, using the sleeves to knot it into a makeshift wound dressing around your torso. 

Next, the Marshal hands you your cloak. “You must be cold, Lord Bering.” He keeps his eyes on your face as you wrap yourself, and you’re as grateful for that as you are for the warmth your cloak affords you. Then he turns to look at something behind you. “Ah,” he says, “I was wondering when we’d be meeting you.”

George is coming towards you, making what haste he can on the treacherous ground. “Are you alright?” he asks you when your eyes meet his, and you nod; you don’t trust your voice right now. You have no idea what’s going to happen next. 

What happens is that George bows to William Marshal. “My lord.”

“Well met, Dragonslayer,” the Marshal says dryly. “I assume that’s who you are?” He gestures at George’s cloak and the embroidered saint on it. 

George swallows, then lifts his chin in sheer bravado. “I’m also the person who saved your life, my lord.”

“And here I thought that had been Lord Bering,” Marshal rejoins, eyebrows high.

“There were several occasions just now,” George replies. He points to several of the fallen. “That was my arrow, as was this one, and this one here.” Then he indicates the body of James MacPherson. “As was that one.”

“You hit a man’s eye from thirty paces?”

“Easier than his balls; larger target,” George gives back, and the Marshal roars with laughter. 

“I like this man,” he tells you. 

“So do I,” you say without thinking.

“I’m just as much a man as my lord Bering is,” Helena says, and your jaw drops. 

“I’d wondered,” says William Marshal. He pinches the bridge of his nose and snorts a huff of laughter. “Either of you willing and able to keep quiet about this? Because then one of you can just stay a man and marry the other.”

“My lord?” Helena asks, echoing your surprise. 

The Marshal sighs, then picks off points on his fingers while his surviving bodyguard looks on stoically. _“You_ kill a man who’s attacking her. You make sure she’s alright before you even address me, the second most important man in the kingdom.” He turns from Helena to you. _“You_ wear a favor in your bandages that’s a close twin of the emblem on her cloak. And you’re both standing well inside each other’s space with no compunction whatsoever.” He looks at both of you in turn. “Yes?”

You sigh. You’re done upholding lies. You’ve as good as told him, anyway. “Yes, my lord.” You take Helena’s hand, and after a brief moment of surprise feel her fingers lock around yours. “No more lies.”

He sighs again. “No more lies, eh? So what do you suggest we tell people instead?”

* * *

Two hours later, you ride into Bering at William Marshal’s side. You are wrapped tightly in your cloak, and you feel tense like you’ve never felt before, no matter what situation you rode into. Being flanked by Claud gives you a modicum of comfort; the Marshal has agreed to your ideas, but still, your people might be chasing you out of town in moments. Behind you, two horses on long leads carry the bodies of the sheriff and James MacPherson. There’s a throng of people in the streets milling about with worried faces. 

“What happened, Lord Bering?”

“Is that the Dragonslayer?”

“Did you kill George the Thief?”

These and other questions fly through the air, following you to the village square. Your mother awaits you there, shadowed by Arthur, Pete and Sergeant Martino. You halt your horse and raise your hand, and the crowd falls silent, awaiting your words. 

It’s William Marshal who speaks first, though. 

“My Lady Bering,” he addresses your mother, inclining his head in greeting. Then he turns his horse to address the crowd. “And good people of Bering. Today has been eventful, and I would recount these events to as many of you as possible – so by your lordship’s leave-” he pauses for you to nod at him, which you do, “-I will do so right here and now. 

“My name is William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, Richard the Lionheart’s regent.” He pauses for a moment to let the people voice their surprise; many draw back a little in the presence of the second most important man in the kingdom. “I came here today having been told of the Baron of Bering’s return from the Holy Land, and having been told also, _and falsely,_ that the baron had been captured by brigands. That lie was a ploy, of Sir James MacPherson and the sheriff of this shire, to waylay me and place the blame for my demise at either your baron’s or George Dragonslayer’s feet.” The crowd mutters a bit more loudly this time, and he raises his hands to mollify them. Your horse shifts under you, sensing your nerves. “As you can see,” the Marshal goes on with a grand gesture between the two of you, “I am alive and well, and so is your baron. In fact, it is thanks to your baron that I am alive, and thanks to the Dragonslayer as well.”

He pauses again, and this time the crowd’s reaction is positive; people clap and stamp their feet. Then he gestures towards you, ceding the stage; you sit up straighter on your horse. “You all know me,” you begin, “and you might think I don’t need to introduce myself. But the truth is-” You’ve spotted Mother Irene in the throng now; she nods at you as your gazes cross. “-that you _were_ lied to, about me, by both my father and myself. Thirty years ago, my mother gave birth not to a boy and a girl, but to two girls. My father, unwilling to cede his barony to a son-in-law he would not know, ordered to raise me as a boy named Michael. And as we are instructed to honor our parents, I strove to be the best heir I could be. 

“Yet the lie chafed at me,” you go on, drawing a breath that is, this time, only hindered by the bandages that wrap your ribs, and nothing else. “When the call came to free the Holy Land I went, hoping to do penance for the sin I was committing daily, of deceiving you about this.” With a somewhat awkward gesture that Helena would, no doubt, have pulled off with much more panache, you shrug your coat off your shoulders. People gasp as they see you in your torn and bloodied undershirt. A pin given you by William Marshal himself holds the large gash shut, but still it is very clear to see that you have breasts. “Though I am a woman,” you continue across the whispers, “I am also what I have been raised to be: a knight, a leader, your baron.”

William Marshal waits for a moment to let this assertion ring through the air and settle in your people’s heads, then he speaks up again. “I have confirmed it so,” he says simply. 

Behind you, you hear your mother gasp. 

“Let it be known throughout the lands of Bering and beyond,” the Marshal goes on, in the loud voice of courtly announcement, “that here rules The Right Honorable Myka Lady Bering, Baroness of-”

“A moment of your time, please,” a smooth voice interrupts him. A horse pushes its way through the throng; its rider is wrapped in an embroidered cloak and a deep hood that covers their features. 

“King George,” the whisper rises from the crowd, getting louder and louder as the rider passes through. 

“Dragonslayer, what of this?” someone calls out as the rider comes to a halt opposite the Marshal and you. “A woman ruler?”

The rider half-turns to the speaker. “Would you rather have me?”

The square is quiet now; the speaker unwilling or unable to answer. 

The rider faces you again. “Lady Bering,” comes from underneath the hood, “what an interesting turn of events. The person who won the hamlet race three years in a row, a woman? The person who saved young Abigail Furlough from drowning, a woman? The person who promised us to end MacPherson’s unjust rule – a woman?”

“She killed him, our lady did,” someone exclaims, pointing at MacPherson’s body. A few people – some of them the most ragged in the crowd – cheer. “Don’t you cast doubt on her. Yes, that was all her what you said; look at her! See the mole next to her eye? She’s always had that. So what if she’s been a she? She’s always been good to us!”

More people cheer now, and your eyes mist up a bit. You’d hoped for this and yes, alright, Helena riding up to you this way was planned, but this man, whoever he is, speaking up for you? That’s real. 

“I know,” Helena says and throws back her hood. “She’s always been good to me, too.”

Again the crowd gasps; at least one guardsman is startled into an exclamation of Helena’s name. Among the many expressions of shock and surprise comes a loud and clear, “Mummy!” and a child running towards her. You can see Wooly in the throng and wonder how many others from the Dells are in Bering at this moment.

Helena slides off her horse and sweeps Christina up in her arms. 

“Helena Wells,” William Marshal says, cutting through the sweet moment, “the person known as George of the Dells, or King George, or the Dragonslayer, you have saved my life as well. Your father, I’ve been told, schooled you in the knightly arts, just as he did your brother and Lady Myka. Is that so?”

Helena bows her head. “That is so, my lord.”

“Will you, then, accept the title of knight from me?”

“Gladly, my lord.”

And such is the mood of the moment, on this day in this village of Bering, that people cheer this development, none louder than the castle’s garrison, be they on the parapet or in the square itself. 

William Marshal gets off his horse as do you; Helena nudges Christina in your direction and the child comes willingly to take your hand. Then Helena kneels down, head held as high as any queen, eyes fiercely bright. The Marshal draws his sword and, with a steady hand, taps the flat of it against Helena’s cheek. “I hereby announce you Dame Helena Wells, knight of the realm of England.” He holds out his hand, inviting her to rise; she takes it and he turns her to present her to the crowd that roars its approval. “I don’t have lands to go with the title,” he says, “at least not off the top of my head. If you’ll be patient until my return to the capitol-”

“Oh, I’ll stay right here, my lord,” Helena says sweetly and gives me a smirk. “I have a baroness to hold to a promise.”

“Righty-ho then,” Marshal laughs, and he isn’t the only one. 

Again this is all pageantry; the three of you came up with it before you rode here. A play, in so many words – you in your bloodied shirt, a faceless challenger who turns out to be the long-lost daughter of a well-respected family, a happy child looking alternately between her mother and you, a figure of undisputed authority throwing his weight behind the upheaval, even the stroke of luck when the sun breaks through the clouds – but as you watch it unfold and say your lines, something shifts within you. 

The innkeeper, astute as ever, has rolled out and breached two barrels of ale to celebrate the occasion, and people are raising their tankards to toast-

“Myka!”

“Lady Myka!”

“Myka Bering!”

“Lady Bering!”

Me.

To toast me. They are shouting my name. _My_ name; not the one my father gave me, but the one I chose myself.

Yes, Helena receives her share of accolades and so does William Marshal, but the people of Bering, _my people,_ are calling _my name,_ and every time they do, it fills a void in me that has lasted for as long as I can think.

“Baroness Myka!”

“To Myka, the lady of Bering!”

Like a leaden cloak slipping off my shoulders my lie falls away from me; freed from its weight I stand taller than I ever have, strengthened not by will alone or my father’s admonishment that a baron’s son should stand straight, but by the sheer truth of who I am, who I can finally be:

Myself, with everything I am, everything I have. 

Never have I felt this free, this true. If this is wrong, I don’t want to be right. But it must be right; I feel its rightness seep through me like the sun’s light that warms me. The Lord has presented me with a way to live my full truth and honor Him at the same time. 

I am The Right Honorable Myka, Lady Bering. Baroness of-

William Marshal claps his hand to my shoulder and people roar and clank their tankards; he makes way for my mother, who embraces me with tears in her eyes and then wipes away tears on my cheeks I never knew were falling. She kisses my forehead and whispers a plea for forgiveness in my ear and I just hold her tight; she is as much victim as I have been.

But now the ruse is over; now I am myself. 

Helena stands at my side through all of it, holding on to Christina’s hand and waving to people in the crowd, speaking with everyone who is coming forth to let her know they missed her, all charm and grace in men’s clothing. 

Baroness of Bering and Wells. 

That is my new title and the new name of my, our barony. The Bering coat of arms, the muzzled silver bear’s head on the blue shield, will change – the bear will lose its muzzle (I will no longer be silenced) and reside in the top right half; a silver line (a river, perhaps with shallows one can ford) will divide the field diagonally, and the lower left half will be green like the land, with two silver-and-blue heraldic fountains (or wells, of course) representing the family of Wells as well as the reason for our prosperity. 

And lastly, Helena and I got the Marshal’s promise to grant the town of Bering market rights, hopefully cementing said prosperousness. 

A good day’s work, and it’s barely mid-afternoon. 

The sun has left again and now I feel the cold seep into my wound; I put on my cloak but it doesn’t help with the tiredness that is sneaking up on me. The occasion has developed into a full-blown celebration, with more caskets of ale, musicians and dancing, and general high spirits. Pete catches my eye – I’ve never seen him grin so widely or so often, but now his expression turns questioning, clears in understanding, and he makes his way over to me. 

“Go on,” he says quietly, nodding at the keep. “I’ll make your excuses. You’ve earned some rest.”

I take a deep, mostly unencumbered breath, and turn to leave. A hand slips into mine. 

“Not running away from me, are you?” Helena says, and her smile is teasing as she calls back to an encounter eight years ago, when things were oh, so different.

“Not to Jerusalem nor anywhere else,” I reply. “Would you care to accompany me, you and Christina?”

“Happily,” she sighs, and we leave. 

Her hand is still in mine, and I cling to what William Marshal has told us – _don’t confirm, don’t deny, just do and let them all go hang. Call each other companion and let people come to their own conclusions; you’ll find that as long as they get what they want from you they won’t care a jot._

I hope he’s right. 

My chamber, _our_ chamber, is cool. “We should get that little oven in here,” I tell Helena and she smirks. 

“There are a good many things in the Dells that we should bring here,” she replies. “I have a great many ideas-”

“I brought Michael and George,” Christina announces, and I laugh out loud; of course she brought her figurines, and of course Helena has _ideas._ When Christina brings out the knight and the angel, her expression turns anxious. “Oh no,” she says, a tamped-down wail, “Michael’s wing has broken off.” She looks at her mother with tears in her eyes. “Mummy, I didn’t mean to-”

“I know, love,” Helena says quickly, running her hand across Christina’s hair and kissing the top of her head. “It’s not a big deal; we’ll just glue it back on.”

“We could glue it to George’s back instead,” I suggest, and Christina looks up at me in confusion. I put my arm across Helena’s shoulders and say, “If they hug very tightly, they can fly together. Like a three-leg race.” My other hands slips into my coat pocket and brings out a battered piece of cloth. It’s no longer square: a cut has sheared off most of the top left corner, leaving it connected only by a thin tatter. I don’t believe in coincidences as I look at it more closely – the cut has taken off one of Archangel Michael’s wings and nothing else. I chuckle, shake my head, bring the cloth up so that my other hand, the one that is wrapped around Helena’s shoulders, can take hold, too – and then, with a sharp jerk and ignoring the pain from my cut hand, I tear the two pieces asunder and hold out the severed wing to my beloved. Now we both have something of the other.

Helena turns on me a face that is the very picture of speechlessness. After a moment it softens, and she takes hold of the little triangle of cloth with a trembling hand. She kisses it and tucks it inside her shirt, then kisses me, just as tenderly. Then she picks up Christina and holds her between us; Christina wraps her legs around her mother’s waist and that frees one of Helena’s arms to curl around my waist in turn and hold me tight. “Like this?” Helena asks, eyes alight with love and mirth. 

Christina giggles, but my gaze is on Helena’s and Helena’s on mine. There is not an inch of space between the three of us, and if you were to put an angel’s wing on my shoulder and another one on hers?

Of course we would fly.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because some things are eternal.

“-sometime around the turn of the century, both the name and the coat of arms of the barony changed,” the tour guide drones as he points to a painted wooden board on the wall that depicts what Helena assumes are the old and the new coat of arms he just mentioned. 

It’s odd bordering on annoying, how the guide’s lackluster delivery turns what should be a fascinating tale into something that has people play on their phones. 

Helena wants to get closer to the board for a better look, but a woman whose curly hair is in a tight braid is in her way. Wrapping a protective arm around Christina’s shoulders and head, Helena pushes into the other tourist’s shoulder until the woman gets the message and shuffles aside. 

“Oh, sorry,” she says, even. 

Helena wonders if she’s Canadian; it’s what Canadians do, isn’t it? Apologize? “Sorry,” she gives quickly back, because she’s English, the English are polite, and saying sorry even if you aren’t really is the polite thing to do in a situation like this. 

The woman does a double take at the carrier with Christina in it, and her expression goes from indifferent to intrigued-and-helpful in the space of a blink. 

Her eyes are a brilliant forest green, Helena notices, and she seems to be Helena’s own age, perhaps a bit younger. She also notices how the woman, this curly-haired, hazel-eyed, college-age potential Canadian, ever so subtly pushes against the other tourists behind her to create some more space for Helena and Christina. 

Helena smiles at her in thanks, and receives a smile in return that is luminous. There’s no other word for it; it entirely lights up the potential Canadian’s features. 

Through the guide’s monotone, Helena leans forward and whispers, “Can you believe what he said about the portrait in the bedroom?”, sure that in this potential Canadian she has found a fellow conspirator. 

“Just gals being pals?” the other woman whispers back with twinkling eyes and yes, Helena thinks, yes exactly. 

“Would a gal pal ever put her hand there?” she says as the group pulls ahead and the two of them fall back. There were two women in the painting, one with straight dark hair and the other with curly brown hair – much like Helena and the potential Canadian, come to think of it. The straight-haired woman in the picture had her hand on the curly-haired woman’s chest, right on top of her heart, and the only interest the tour guide showed in the two women’s posture is that apparently for portraits of this time, a person looking over their shoulder at the viewer instead of at the other person in the picture was unusual. Never mind that the painting depicted two women who were obviously lovers, at least in Helena’s mind. Because seriously, who puts their hand on ‘just a friend’ like that?

“Exactly what I was thinking,” the potential Canadian replies. “On the other hand we can probably be glad that he didn’t take it into girl love territory. Who knows where that would’ve ended.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Neanderthals,” Helena agrees, and then realizes the potential Canadian has said the exact same word at the exact same time. 

They grin at each other. 

Then the potential Canadian holds out her hand. “Myka Bering, believe it or not,” she says. “Imagine my surprise when I found out about this place; my dad always said we were descended from the Danish explorer, but now I’m not so sure.”

“You mean after that story about a knight's gender change in the twelfth century?” Helena teases. 

“Uh, yeah? Who wouldn’t want to be descended from a badas- um, I mean, an amazing woman like that?” Myka Bering catches herself, blushing as her eyes dart down to Christina’s head and then back up at Helena. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Helena says lightly, “someone called Helena Wells, perhaps.”

Myka stares at her, then blinks, then grins. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Helena confirms, with a very solemn nod, and holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Myka Bering.”

“Holy sh-… wow. I mean. Wow.” Myka’s grip is warm and sure.

They navigate the rest of the tour through Bering Castle together, and while Myka is very solicitous of Christina and the needs of a mother carrying around a nine-months-old baby, she doesn’t ask any intrusive questions, just Christina’s name. Christina, on her part, is amazingly well-behaved, but that might have to do with a certain very animated hazel-eyed face that keeps engaging the kid. 

The rapport between Myka and her is so easy that Helena could almost believe in re-birth. 

Myka confesses to having researched the history of Bering and Wells barony extensively and in great detail before this visit, and after she corrects the tour guide for the third time (not openly, just a whisper in Helena’s ears), they stop listening altogether and start trailing the group while Myka relays what she knows. 

“They say she saved the life of King Richard Lionheart himself, can you imagine?” she says, excitement straining her whisper. “And she was a great fighter and strategist, apparently. I mean we don’t have primary sources, but the secondary ones that we _do_ have agree on that if not on actual numbers.”

“So did she actually go on crusade as a female knight?” Helena asks. 

“No, all documents pertaining to the crusade call her Sir Michael,” Myka says. “The reveal happened sometime after she returned. I do wonder if her captors knew she was female while she was with them.”

“She was taken captive?”

“Yeah, for several years,” Myka nods. “During which she learned Arabic, and then when she came back she translated the books she’d been allowed to read and dictated them to a sister in the monastery.” She points her thumb at the wall behind which, somewhere in the distance, that self-same monastery still stands. “So in a way she was part of that cultural exchange between the Islamic world and Christians; pretty cool, don’t you think?”

Helena hums noncommittally. “I could imagine she’d probably rather have been home sooner than later, but barring that, yes, I guess.”

“I just find it so intriguing,” Myka goes on, “that on the one hand, all the accounts say that he-slash-she was very pious and religious, and on the other hand she valued those quote-unquote heathen books and their knowledge, and lived with a woman!”

“I certainly agree with that one,” Helena nods, and then groans when Christina, bored with the lack of change in her view, suddenly throws her body to the right. “Ouch.” 

“Hey, um,” Myka says, “if you want, I can, uh, carry her for a while. If… if that’s not, I don’t know, weird or anything.” She frowns, as if she’s already backtracking in her mind. 

Helena gives a deep exhale. “Oh would you?” she asks quickly, hoping that Myka won’t change her mind. “She’s getting a bit too heavy to carry around for long, and I think the tour is almost finished which means I can put her in her pram when we’re outside, but-”

“Say no more,” Myka says, and squares her shoulders. “How do we do this?”

It takes a few minutes, but then Christina is ensconced on Myka’s shoulders, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as she regards this new person so close to her. To be honest, Myka’s expression isn’t much different, and entirely enchanting. 

“Hi,” Myka says softly to the child, and Helena clutches Myka’s backpack, which she’s been given in exchange, closer to her. This woman, a virtual stranger, is so perfect it strains credulity – smart, erudite, not turned off or intimidated by a child, beautiful to look at. There is no ring on her finger and she hasn’t spoken of a significant other, though truth be told, neither has Helena mentioned that she’s single, so there’s that. 

She probably should – or would that be coming on too strong? She doesn’t even know if Myka is into women. Straight people, allies, can be this excited about two medieval women living together. 

Besides, Myka is a tourist – from Colorado, USA, not from Canada, as Helena has learned by now. So even if she’s into women, she’s not going to be here much longer, and if there’s one thing Helena dislikes, it’s long distance relations-

Is she seriously thinking about relationships?!

The tour does end, Helena retrieves her pram from storage – and Myka seems loath to be parted from Christina, to the point where she herself brings it up. 

“This was kind of nice,” she says with a big grin. “I’ve done my share of babysitting, but I’ve never used a carrier. Pretty cool.”

Helena smiles at the return of that phrase. “Well, I for one am glad you liked it. If you want to push the pram now,” she gestures at it, “by all means be my guest.” She has no compunctions whatsoever about entrusting Myka with Christina – that rapport again. It feels as though she’s known Myka for far longer than just half an afternoon. 

“Well, where are you going?” Myka asks. 

“I’m staying at the Dells Inn,” Helena says, “and I’d like to return there to feed Christina. She’ll be hungry soon; she’s very reliable that way.”

Myka’s eyebrows are high on her forehead, then she grins. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says. “I mean there aren’t all that many hotels in Bering Wells, are there.”

“You’re staying there too?” Helena laughs. “Next we’ll find out we’re in adjacent rooms.”

“Nah, that just happens in Hallmark movies,” Myka jokes, but when they do arrive at the inn, Helena gets given the key – an actual, old-fashioned bronze key – for number twelve and Myka the one for number thirteen. The guy at the reception desk refuses to believe the coincidence of their last names, and then promises them a drink on the house in the inn’s pub that night.

They laugh about the whole thing all the way up the stairs. 

Their laughter fades at the door to number twelve. “Well, I, uh, guess I’ll be seeing you around,” Myka says, suddenly awkward. “I, uh… I’m here for two more days. Highlight of my trip and all,” she adds with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” Helena says, and finds herself wishing it weren’t so. “Back to work on Monday, after all.” Christina is beginning to fidget the way she always does a few minutes before the hungry wails start. 

Myka nods. “Do you, um… d’you wanna meet up in the pub tonight? For that drink? Is that – would that even work, with Christina?”

“Oh! Yes,” Helena says quickly. “Yes, I’d love to, and yes it would work. I have a monitor that synchs with my phone, meaning I can be downstairs while Christina sleeps up here. I’ll just have my phone on the table; I hope that won’t bother you.”

“Nope,” Myka beams. “What time is best?”

“How about I come knocking when Christina’s asleep?” Helena says, and now she’s feeling awkward. Isn’t this quite a lot of spontaneity to ask? “Sometime between seven and eight, I hope? Would that be alright?”

“Perfect,” Myka tells her authoritatively. 

And it is. Helena knocks at Myka’s door at seven forty-seven, having taken fifteen minutes for herself after Christina fell asleep, to make sure her outfit looks alright and put on a bit of make-up. It’s not exactly as though she has packed for a date, and she’s not even sure if this _is_ a date; she certainly would love to think so, though.

Myka looks stunning. 

Not exactly dressed up either, and she probably has the same excuse as Helena, but still: there’s a bit of smokiness around her eyes and she’s wearing a tight v-neck t-shirt under a half-buttoned button-up and dress pants to go with it, and her _hair-_

Her hair is no longer in a braid, and Helena is speechless before it.

If Myka notices that the conversation they’re having on her doorstep is exceedingly one-sided, she doesn’t mention it. 

The pub is lovely – except for the taps and the one TV on the wall, it doesn’t look like it changed in the last century, if not longer. The ceiling is low, dark wood, the walls are washed white and hung with photos of patrons as well as prints and memorabilia, service at the bar is sharp, and the food, when it arrives, is fantastic. 

“So, can I ask what brings you here?” Myka begins when they’ve finished eating and are enjoying their complimentary drinks. “Looking into an ancestor, just like me?”

Helena weighs her head. “You could say that, I suppose. My parents were convinced that we are related to the author, hence my middle name – George,” she adds, rolling her eyes. Having a male-connoted middle name had been fun in school, not to talk about having the same initials and last name as one of the authors on the syllabus. 

“Seriously?” Myka grins, but it’s a mix of commiseration and excitement, rather than flat-out teasing. “Your full name is-”

“Don’t,” Helena groans, and Myka honest-to-God giggles before she apologizes once again. “You know,” Helena tells her, “I thought you were Canadian when we ran into each other in the castle. What with all the apologizing.”

Myka laughs. “I know for a fact every single Canadian tourist is now singing a Hallelujah in thanks. Normally they get taken for US Americans and hate it.”

Helena bites her lips together; she can understand why anyone would hate that, but she’d bite off her own tongue rather than say it. 

“And I get it,” Myka goes on, saving Helena by saying it herself, “Americans can be pretty obnoxious. I mean this is my first time ever outside the US and even I can see that.”

Rather than continue with this topic, Helena brings it back to the original one. “In any case,” she says, berating herself for her lack of smoothness, “someone sent me a travel article about this place a while ago, pointing out that the story featured a character with my very own name. So, when I realized I’d have a weekend for myself with no obligations outside Christina and me, here’s where I came.”

“Gotcha,” Myka says, and when before today, Helena had always thought these American contractions obnoxious, she’s quickly changing her mind. “And did it, I mean does it, live up to your expectations?”

Helena ostentatiously looks around the pub, but in all honesty, the reason why today far exceeds all of her expectations is sitting right in front of her. “It’s not so bad,” she tries to joke and then hides her blush behind her pint. 

Myka laughs out loud and takes a pull from her own draught; the light dances on her curls as she tilts her head back, and Helena feels mesmerized. Then Myka grows serious again, setting her glass down in front of her and turning it around and around with slender fingers. “If I’m honest, I’m not here so much for my potential ancestor but for myself. You know, trying to find meaning, trying to figure out what I wanna do.”

Helena raises her eyebrows, and that’s all that’s necessary to encourage Myka to go on. 

“I feel kinda stuck, you know? Like, my parents want me to go into something that brings in the big bucks; law, or medicine, that kind of thing. And I tried, I really did. First I went to pre-med for a year and that didn’t really pull me in, then I tried pre-law and that didn’t work either. I mean I did well enough academically, but then I look at the health system in the US, and at the justice system, and it’s all so messed up I wouldn’t even know where to start to change it, you know?”

Helena’s eyebrows climb higher. 

“What I really want to do is…” Myka stops herself and hangs her head. She takes a deep breath, takes another drink, and now rings the bottom of her glass with her fingers, idly doodling on the condensation. “I wanna study literature. But my parents would have a fit, and the thing is, I really get why. I mean, what’s there to do for an English major?”

One corner of Helena’s mouth comes up. “Copywriter for travel articles and guidebooks,” she says. “Have it on very good authority.” She takes a swig of her beer, keeping her eyes locked with Myka’s, and winks at her when she’s done. 

“Oh wow,” Myka says and blushes again. “Really?”

“I assure you it sounds far more glamorous than it is,” Helena says dryly. “This here is _not_ part of my job.” She gestures around the room. “It is very much extraordinary, in fact. Typically, I sit in my dingy little apartment, typing away at the cheapest laptop I could find, praying that Christina will sleep long enough for me to meet my deadline.”

Myka’s eyes are round now, and contrite. “Oh.” She gulps. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

Helena blinks. “What on Earth for? None of this is in any way your fault.”

“No, I mean…” Myka frowns, drinks, licks off her lips and presses them together. “Never mind. Um. Is, uh… is the job okay? I mean somewhat okay, anyway? D’you like it?”

Helena takes pity on her. “I do, yes,” she says, and it’s the truth. “It allows me to work to my own schedule, which is very much a necessity with a nine-month-old child, and the subject matter is far more interesting than, say, agricultural science. Which is probably fascinating to the connoisseur,” she adds quickly, “but I am not among that number.” She narrows her eyes in speculation. “With your previous experiences, you could do the same for law journals or medical journals. They always seek editors who don’t just understand language but what’s being said in it, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes!” Myka exclaims immediately. “See, I’ve been thinking about scientific communication. I love when authors explain scientific concepts in a way that’s accessible, not too high-brow but also not patronizing, you know? I’d love to do that.” Then she ducks her head again. “But I guess I’d have to be a scientist for that, not an English major.”

“Can’t you do both?” Helena suggests. “Go for a double major, I mean? Or,” she adds, “you could write about linguistics, or another language-related field?”

Myka takes a deep breath. There’s a tiny crease between her eyebrows as she stares into nothing for a while. “I suppose,” she sighs in the end. “I don’t know. And I guess that’s what I’m here to figure out, you know? Pete said to just pick somewhere and go, and then take it from there, and that’s,” she stops and laughs, “that’s _so_ not my thing I can’t even begin to tell you. And yet here I am,” she shrugs, and lifts her pint to Helena in a small salute before draining it. 

“Here you are,” Helena nods, wondering who Pete is. “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No it’s not,” Myka says immediately, “but where do I go from here?”

Helena’s eyebrows come up again. “London, Paris, Rome?” she suggests. It’s not like it’s hard to find places to go in England, the British Isles in general, or the continent. 

“I suppose,” Myka sighs again. She looks almost mopey, and Helena chuckles. “Maybe I should have made a plan,” Myka grouses, and then cranes her neck to see how packed the bar is. She gets up. “D’you want another, too?” she nods at the remnants of beer in Helena’s glass.

“No – breastfeeding,” Helena says apologetically. “Glass of water would be nice, though?”

“Coming right up,” Myka promises and, indeed, delivers a minute later. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” It’s odd, and also immensely gratifying, how Myka will react to any mentions of Christina. There are no pressing questions, no pity or false enthusiasm, just simple acceptance, and Helena cherishes every minute of it. Helena puts her phone down – Christina is still peacefully asleep – and asks, “How does Bromley sound to you?”

Myka stops in the very act of sitting down. “What?” she asks, and only then does she sink slowly into her seat. 

“Bromley,” Helena repeats. “As a destination.” She can feel color rising into her cheeks. “Though I must admit my motives for asking aren’t completely selfless.” She likes Myka, enough to not want this to be a ships-in-the-night moment.

Myka catches on after only a second. “You are called H.G. Wells, and you live in Bromley,” she says, and then she giggles. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Now Helena feels slightly panicked. She had not counted on that. 

Myka shrugs, and takes another drink. “I’ve always liked H.G. Wells,” she says, and now Helena is confused. 

“Yes, well, so do I, but-”

Myka leans forwards conspiratorially. It seems she’s a bit tipsy, and that makes Helena glad that the second drink Myka’s gotten for herself is only a half-pint. “I’m trying to be nonchalant,” she says. 

“Oh,” is all Helena can think of to say to that. 

“Not doing a good job, am I?” Myka shakes her head at herself and huffs before lifting her glass to her lips again. “In the interest of not sending mixed messages,” she says, annunciating overly clearly, “yes, I would go to Bromley next. I don’t have a fixed itinerary.” Though she takes great care, her tongue stumbles a bit on that last word. “Got a bit of money saved up for this; can stay wherever I want and do whatever I want for as long until the moolah runs out.”

“You could stay with Wooly,” Helena says before she can stop herself. “My friend, lives a couple of streets away,” she elaborates. “His flatmate just moved out. Cheaper than a hotel?” God, she really needs to stop herself. Myka is definitely tipsy; she shouldn’t make decisions right now. Certainly not a decision whether or not to follow a virtual stranger halfway across the country and stay at their friend’s place. “I promise I’m not an axe-murderer,” Helena adds, and then tries to hide her blush behind the rest of her beer.

Myka’s eyes are wide, and she’s nibbling at her lip. “What about Christina?” she asks. 

Helena blinks in confusion. “What about her?”

“Does she drink the blood of innocent American tourists?”

“What?!” 

A slow, lazy smile spreads across Myka’s face. “Gotcha.”

Helena palms her forehead and groans. “I am seriously considering rescinding my invitation,” she tells the table top. 

“Please don’t.” Myka’s answer is immediate, and very serious. When Helena looks up at her, Myka’s eyes are just as earnest. “I had a great day today,” she tells Helena. “I wouldn’t mind having more days like this. And if that means Bromley, then by all means I’ll go to Bromley.”

Helena is speechless. Say something, her thoughts urge her, and she stammers, “I had a great day too,” and then feels like kicking herself, if that was the best she could do.

Myka smiles, and it is the most charming smile Helena has ever seen. Maybe her reply wasn’t so bad after all. 

They talk about less world-moving matters while Myka finishes her beer, and when they rise from the table to head upstairs, the guy from the reception desk, who’s now behind the bar, comes out to talk to them. 

“Hey, how about a picture?” he says. “For the wall? Can’t have Myka Bering and Helena Wells in my pub at the same time and not at least ask, right?”

Helena meets Myka’s questioning glance and shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

Myka’s answering smile is brilliant, and then brightens up even more. “Hey, why don’t we do that pose?” she asks. “You know, the one from the painting.”

Helena splutters for a moment; just a picture is one thing – putting her hand on Myka’s chest is quite another. With the neckline of Myka’s shirt being what it is (and Helena has spent quite a large part of the evening ignoring the neckline of Myka’s shirt being what it is), her hand would touch mostly skin. “Are… are you quite sure?” she asks, but Myka just nods and pulls her towards the red drapes that all the other pictures have been taken in front of. 

“Okay, I’ll be standing here,” she’s muttering, “and you’ll stand there – no, other side, mirror image,” she corrects herself, and pulls Helena to where she thinks is right. “How does it look?” she calls across Helena’s head to the guy who’s holding his phone up. 

He gives them a thumbs-up. “Perfect.”

“See?” Myka tells Helena. “Perfect. Now you turn like _that-”_ she grabs Helena’s shoulders with both hands, warm and strong, and turns her half-around, “put your hand _here,_ and look over at…”

“Sean,” the guy provides. 

“Look over at Sean,” Myka finishes. “Come on!”

Helena’s hand travels upwards at glacial speed, or so it seems. She isn’t looking at Sean; she can’t afford to yet. She has to make sure her hand doesn’t land anyplace… untoward. Her mouth is hanging open and she’s licking her lips, and she really, really needs to get a hold of herself. Her hand is hovering in front of Myka’s chest now, and Helena looks up to meet Myka’s eyes one last time. “Are you really quite sure?”

“Yes,” Myka says impatiently, and takes Helena’s wrist to speed things up. 

When skin lands on skin, time seems to slow down. Or maybe Helena’s mind speeds up, who knows. Myka’s chest is slightly cool, but quick to warm under Helena’s palm and fingers. Helena can feel Myka’s breath hitch just as she can see her eyes widen and her lips part – Myka feels it too, she’s sure of it. The air seems to still between them, and Helena is just about to raise herself to… do… something, when Myka gulps and whispers, “Look- look at Sean. Right?”

Right. Sean. The photo. Helena huffs out an embarrassed laugh and turns away from Myka, and does her best to put a smile on her face for the camera. 

As soon as Sean gives them another thumbs-up, they step apart. This time when they ascend the stairs, there is no laughter; Helena wonders if Myka is as confused as she is. 

She lingers in front of her door, turns her head to try and figure out _something_ to say, but Myka is striding past her, hand at her forehead and shoulders tight, and Helena watches her unlock her door with jerky motions and scoot inside through a barely wide enough crack and shut the door with a very definite click. 

That’s when Helena exhales the breath that she’s been holding, and it’s tremulous. 

Maybe… maybe taking a step back is a good idea. Maybe inviting Myka into Wooly’s flat isn’t. Maybe this is her brain over-reacting at having had a great day in the company of someone who saw her for herself instead of ‘a piece I’d like to get a piece of’ (her editor-in-chief, verbatim), or instead of an unfortunately necessary extension of the main attraction (every other parent she’s encountered). 

Helena softly closes her door behind her and leans against it. The room is quiet but for the snuffling of a sleeping baby, and Helena allows herself a long inhale and exhale before she pushes herself off the door and over to Christina’s traveling cot. 

It takes her forever to fall asleep. Sometimes she thinks she hears noises from next door that seem to say that Myka’s tossing and turning too, but Helena tells herself very firmly to ignore them. It won’t do her any good to wonder what Myka’s doing. 

Three hours into her own tossing and turning, Christina wakes for her early morning feeding, and is impossible to calm back down after it. Helena feels her nerves fraying further as Christina fusses and fusses and eventually begins to cry; it’s past two in the morning, they’re in a bloody inn, they’ll be waking everyone up – and then there’s a tap on the door. 

Bouncing a wailing Christina on her hip and feeling utterly mortified, Helena walks over, and there’s Myka, hair tousled and cheeks ruddy, wearing glasses and an expression that’s hovering between determined and trepidant. “Need help?” she asks, and Helena pulls her in. 

She’s verging on tears and blames the lack of sleep. “I think Christina is a bit overstimulated from everything we did today,” she says, proud of the coherence of her sentence. “I fed her, I burped her; normally when I walk around with her like this she just does her business and then I can change her and we can go back to sleep, but-” she gestures helplessly as Christina wails again. 

Myka nods, sucking on her lip. Then she says, with a visible push to herself, “Would you trust me enough to try something? I promise I learned this in babysitting class.” 

“At this point I’d try anything,” Helena says, looking at the walls and ceiling that, in her imagination at least, hide dozens of disapproving faces.

Myka holds out her hands; Helena reaches Christina over. Her daughter’s wails intensify as Myka walks with her to the bathroom, become almost incandescent – and then subside when Myka sits down on the toilet seat and lays Christina belly-up on her knees. Then Myka proceeds to rub Christina’s abdomen through her onesie. Christina hiccups, pulls a face, and cries again, but it’s softer now. Myka hums while her fingers tap and rub, and finally she looks up at Helena and says, “Gas, I think. Maybe something you had for lunch or dinner made it into, y’know…” she gestures extremely vaguely towards Helena’s entire torso.

“I understand,” Helena says, thoughts turning immediately to all she’s eaten today and what might have been the culprit. She feels bad; what kind of mother is she that she’d eat something that made her child cry like this?!

“Um, could you hand me a towel?” Myka says suddenly, urgently, but before Helena can jump to it, it happens:

Full-on diaper blowout.

And Myka just laughs. “Better out than in,” she tells the baby in her lap, and then proceeds to calmly start cleaning the baby, the toilet, and herself. Not that she can do much about the latter; both her shirt and her pants are… affected.

It’s when Helena realizes that, that she finally jumps into action. “Let me,” she says, taking Christina, who’s now happily kicking her naked legs, out of Myka’s arm. “You really don’t need to-”

Myka smiles and nods. “I’ll go take a shower,” she says, and then she’s gone. 

It takes Helena half an hour to clean up the rest, and by the time she’s done, Christina is deeply asleep, looking sweet and innocent as if nothing ever happened. Helena looks down at herself; she’s managed to not get anything on her clothes, but still the smell permeates everything. She grimaces and takes a t-shirt and undies from her suitcase; she always packs extra clothes for herself and her daughter, but she wouldn’t have thought that she’d need to pack an extra set of PJs. She briefly debates taking a shower, too, but she is tired, so tired, so she just changes. And then there’s a tap on the door again. 

She sighs, dragging herself to open it. She hopes it’s not another guest come to complain about the ruckus or, god forbid, Sean or his night shift equivalent.

It’s Myka. “I just wanted to see if you were alright,” she says, and Helena can’t help herself and won’t stop herself and simply lets herself sink into the woman standing in front of her. “O-kay…” Myka says, stumbling only slightly as she catches Helena in her arms. “Okay. You’re okay. This is fine. Okay. Come on, let’s get inside.” She walks Helena backwards into the room and closes the door behind them, then she holds her tight. “It’s alright.”

“I just wanted a nice little getaway,” Helena whispers. “Just a bit of vacation, change of scenery, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Myka nods. Her arms are warm and strong, just like her hands were. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. Christina alright?”

“Sleeping like an angel,” Helena sighs. “I wish I could, too, but my train leaves at eight, so I gotta get up at five, which is in-”

“Two hours,” Myka finishes along with her. “Sorry. That sucks.” She urges Helena to sit and then crouches down in front of her, hands on Helena’s knees as if they’ve done this a million times. “Hey, um. Y’know, I originally came here to say that I don’t… I don’t do this. This, um, whatever-on-first-sight thing. You know? Like – I don’t. I just don’t. Totally out of character.”

Helena nods; she gets it, tired though she is. This is Myka letting her down easy, or something along those lines. 

But there are hands on her knees. That doesn’t seem to fit.

“But…” Myka forges on, biting her lip and looking aside for a moment. “You… We…” She shakes her head, looks up at Helena, and in the process realizes she has her hands on Helena’s knees. They’re summarily withdrawn, and Helena misses them instantly. “Maybe this is… I don’t know, it sounds so melodramatic, but maybe this is what I came here for, you know? Like, my gut is telling me to just go with it, and I’m not usually the type of person who goes with their gut, but maybe I should? And so…” She swallows and takes a deep breath. “So, um. I got a rental car. If, uh… if you’ve got a car seat for Christina, I can drive you. Home. That way you can sleep in. And in the car we can, you know, talk. Get to know each other. Although, I mean, it’s pretty different driving on your side of the road; I don’t know how well I’ll be able to focus-”

Helena stares at the apparition rambling on in front of her. Myka has changed clothes; she’s in a different t-shirt, something wide and orange with a collegiate print, and in sweatpants. Her hair is slung into a sloppy bun and damp at the tips, her face is bare of any kind of make-up, and word-vomiting though she still is, she looks like a goddamn _angel_ to Helena, to the point where Helena really wouldn’t wonder to see wings sprout from Myka’s back. She gulps, and Myka falls silent. And instead of all the reasons why she couldn’t possibly accept Myka’s offer, Helena simply whispers, “Would you?”

Myka shrugs and smiles. “Course.”

Americans and their ellipses. That’s the last conscious thought going through Helena’s brain before she falls asleep. Her phone alarm starts buzzing at five, but someone takes care of it and then wraps her in warm arms again, and moments later, she’s deeply asleep once more. 

They say almost nothing to each other over breakfast; the night they have just spent in each other’s arms is a bit too fresh still, a bit too precarious. On the long drive to Bromley, though, they don’t stop talking. Helena finds herself telling Myka more about herself than she’s ever told anyone including Wooly, from her fraught relationship with her parents (who would absolutely support her financially if she weren’t too stubborn to accept it) and the boyfriend who didn’t want to be a father and thus ceased to be a boyfriend too, to her dreams to one day finish her master’s and a doctorate and go into teaching.

Myka, in turn, tells her about Pete, who isn’t a boyfriend but a BFF, and about Sam who used to be a boyfriend but then moved across the country, which means something _quite_ different in the US than it does in the UK. All that talk about boyfriends makes Helena doubt what she’s seen and heard and felt, but then at a rest stop Myka kisses her, a bit clumsy, a bit bumpy, a whole lot charming, when Helena straightens up from putting Christina in the car seat. 

“Is that okay?” Myka then asks, and in reply Helena kisses her back, a bit less bumpy, a bit less clumsy, with all the charm at her disposal. 

Helena gives Myka Wooly’s address because surely they’re going at this a little bit too fast, and Myka stays at Wooly’s for two full nights before they agree that there is very little point to a waiting game when one of the parties involved has a three-digit amount of dollars left before she has to fly home across the pond. 

Helena leaves Christina with Wooly when she takes Myka to Heathrow. She knows he’s a good babysitter, and she knows she’ll be a mess after saying goodbye. 

She is. But so is Myka.

And they’re a mess during their Skype calls, and Myka’s letters come with dried teardrops crinkling the paper and smudging the ink, but Helena has no room to talk; hers don’t look any different. They also contain things that make each other smile, though: they send each other their favorite snacks, they make each other playlists to listen to while reading, they tell each other the smallest mundanities and their deepest secrets. 

Myka visits in February, because those are the cheapest flights she can find, and tells Helena that she’s looking into studying English lit in England- that’s as far as she gets before Helena tackles her to kiss her breathless. They spend the rest of Myka’s visit researching universities and scholarships – those moments that aren’t spent in bed or with Christina, that is. 

Christina starts recognizing Myka during that visit, starts holding out her arms to her, and Helena tears up once more. 

She certainly tears up when she picks Myka up again at Heathrow that August, with an estate car she borrowed from Wooly’s parents to fit all the belongings Myka is bringing. This time Christina hides a little from Myka at first, but she soon loses her shyness again and-

They’re a family. 

It’s not instant and it’s not seamless, but it’s right, it feels so right, day in and day out. 

As time goes by, they spend one particular weekend each year in one particular inn in the Barony of Bering and Wells. Christina comes to love the place, and Sean comes to know them all on sight, including Wooly, including Pete, and Claudia, a fellow American at Myka’s university who’s quickly becoming Myka’s best friend over here. 

Six years in, they hold their wedding party at the Dells Inn (it’s not even a question), and Sean takes another picture; same background drapes, same women, same pose – wedding gowns instead of slacks and t-shirts. Myka looks just as breathlessly radiant in the new picture as she does in the old; Helena just as stunned. Sean enlargens the picture and frames it, giving it a spot of honor on the wall. 

Though they wished for a small wedding with only their friends and family, the town registrar of Bering Wells was overjoyed when they asked if they could get married in Bering Castle, and all of a sudden the wedding ceremony boasted the mayor herself, a few city officials, a member of the Bering Wells Historical Society, and reporters both from the local newspaper and from an LGBTQ* website. 

Their story goes viral (‘Bering and Wells’ even becomes a hashtag), and the two of them get more proficient at media handling than they ever thought necessary. Helena couldn’t be more annoyed, and Myka couldn’t be more stressed – but then the messages come in, directly and through LGBTQ* pages, from people who were inspired by their story, people who realized the truth about themselves after reading about Bering and Wells, people who tell them they saved their lives. 

The town of Bering Wells allocates some of the funds that flow into it towards an outreach project for LGBTQ* kids in the area, and it doesn’t even take a lot of prodding.

Sean tells them that people come into the Dells Inn simply to take a selfie with the framed picture of Bering and Wells, though usually they stay for a pint or lemonade afterwards. His grin is cheeky when he adds that the combo of a half-pint and a glass of water is now dubbed a ‘Bering and Wells’ on the menu, ‘because Wells and water, you see.’ 

Pete insists on buying Christina a Bering and Wells shirt at the castle when he visits, and the store attendant tells him that the shirts just fly off the shelves, especially the rainbow collection. Pete grins and buys another shirt for himself, in the pinks, reds and oranges of the Sapphic flag, and tries to wear it daily until Myka tells him in no uncertain terms that it needs washed.

It’s odd, Helena thinks, how life unfolds sometimes. She found inspiration in the story of her twelfth-century namesake; she decided to visit the place where that namesake lived and found someone else equally inspired by their own namesake, and they fell in love with each other just like their namesakes did. And now they’re providing inspiration for others. 

If anything, Helena thinks, it’s a bit of a bummer that it’s ‘Bering and Wells’, not ‘Wells and Bering’, but she supposes one can’t have everything. And she has so much.


End file.
